


La luna llena sobre España

by guti



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Anal Sex, Football, Implied Relationships, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Oral Sex, Past Relationship(s), Spanish National Team, Werewolf Footballers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 77,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4309740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first Spaniards who landed on Gran Canaria thought they heard dogs barking and howling in the night, but they were wrong. They were so very wrong. AKA Werewolf AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at writing a longer story. I'm pretty nervous about it, but I hope you'll enjoy it! A couple people have looked this over, but if there are any typos, etc. please let me know! 
> 
> As a general note, I’ve taken some artistic liberties regarding the actual lunar cycles in order to make things work. The team rosters are accurate and so are the results of the matches mentioned, but I'm being loosey-goosey with some details for the sake of the story. It's an AU, so yeah. Also there are no WAGs because that complicates things too much. Just go with it. I've tagged everyone who shows up. Everyone tagged in this will feature, but some won't show up for a few chapters, so heads up! And this story isn't always linear, as there are some asides detailing events in the past. The dates and locations of the setting are noted, but if you get confused, feel free to drop me a line so I can clarify if you need! :)
> 
> Inspired by and lovingly dedicated to [pimpam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpam/profile), who has encouraged this mess. Fic title is a play on a lyric from La Unión.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief history of Gran Canaria and its native population.

There are few, if any places left on Earth where any traces of magic still exist. The unexplained have been driven from the planet, eradicated by humans on the quest for power and enlightenment. As civilizations progressed, rose, fell, then rose again, the original stories of magic and the legends of old were forgotten, dismissed as little more than fairy tales or myths.

But in some places, far flung corners of the globe, faint traces of the distant past still linger in the world. For not everything that seems like magic truly is. Most everything can be explained away, but most everyone is too conceited or busy or tired to listen. Science and magic are not at odds in these places. Instead the forces are intertwined, mingling together and explaining each other in ways that man has forgotten over the centuries. Only a few of these sacred places exist anymore, and most of them have been altered, trampled, and made to conform to the standards of humanity. But in these isolated regions, some element of the primal still exists. And the Macaronesian islands off the coast of Africa are one such unblemished region.

Containing the island chains of the Azores, Madeira, Cape Verde, and the Canary Islands, the ancient Greeks believed that these volcanic islands were the remnants of the lost civilization of Atlantis, with their misty mountain peaks the only remaining trace of that drowned continent. The Europeans who landed on these islands centuries later found them to be convenient ports of safe harbor during long voyages to the New World, or south toward Africa to explore and exploit the peoples on either side of the Atlantic. Havens of rest and shelter in the midst of the vast ocean, these islands served as points of exchange for money, culture, and a secret which humans might classify as magic.

The Canary Islands seem a magical place indeed. Nowhere else on Earth is there an island chain so lush and green, with forests of laurel and dracaena rising out of the volcanic rocks to form a perfect, prehistoric landscape. The islands rise up from the ocean, some lush as jungles full of fruits, others an extension of the Sahara over the sea to the east, and they sit at the junction of the north-east trade winds, meaning the climate is pleasant and mild and inviting all year round. One can stroll through thickets of plantains, becoming lost in the green palm forests just as easily as one can wander along sandy white beaches which slowly turn into sweeping desert scrubland. They are truly unlike any place else on Earth.

The islands take their name from the third largest of the seven islands, Gran Canaria. Formerly known as Canariae Insulae ("Island of the Dogs”), it was so called according to Pliny the Elder because it was home to "vast multitudes of dogs of very large size”. Some historians speculate that the large dogs were actually seals heard barking on the beaches by the first non-native sailors to visit the island. Others speculated than the indigenous Guanche people of the Canaries worshipped a dog-headed deity, reminiscent of Anubis of Egyptian lore. Regardless, the name stuck and is still in use to this day.

These etymological theories the are only half-correct, however. The islands were so-called by the Mauritanian explorers because the Guanches themselves were dogs. Or rather, because the Guanches were werewolves. The Mauritanians became aware of this fact during their earliest contact with the Guanches, but this fact was somehow lost to history, which benefited the Guanches immensely. This closely guarded secret has been kept for centuries, as the Guanches were captured, enslaved, and conquered by the Castilians. The indigenous people intermarried with the Spanish, and over time the recessive genes for lycanthropy became rarer and rarer, sometimes lying dormant for generations, other times displaying in entire families. As descendants of the Guanches made their way off the islands, reports of werewolf sightings spread around the world, though Gran Canaria in particular remained the epicenter of the condition.

Werewolves come into being in one of two ways– they are either born a werewolf or they are turned at some point in their lives. The children of werewolves have roughly a 50% chance of inheriting the condition. And of course, other werewolves are made so as the result of surviving an attack. These creatures were the unfortunate victims of a mauling who managed to survive their ordeal, only to find themselves afflicted with the same condition as their lupine attackers.

Those afflicted experience their first transformation sometime during puberty, transforming just before midnight on the night of the full moon into a large, four-legged, bloodthirsty wolf. The transformation is painful, utter agony, lasting until dawn on the following morning, after which time the afflicted is returned to their human form. Most werewolves have no memory of their actions during their transformation. Others report that they can recall glimpses of the past, little flashes of blood and gore.

It is foolishness to attempt to reason with a werewolf after it has transformed. There is little if any shred of humanity left in them then. And they are nearly impossible to kill. Some report that they are adverse to silver, others claim nothing will stop the beasts.

These descendants of the Guanches have only one true defense against the human world: no one really believes they exist. The community has kept the existence of werewolves a secret for hundreds of years, not daring to risk exposure to the outside world. The only humans made aware of their existence were the ones who married into packs, ones who would in all likelihood be turned in order to strengthen their unity and bond. Rarely, if ever, did werewolves willingly involve themselves in romances with humans they had no intention of someday turning.

But on 8 January, 1986, one such werewolf was born, and on 24 June, 2009, another was created. 


	2. Chapter One

**21 November 2007  
Las Palmas, Gran Canaria**

 

They’d needed some redemption against Northern Ireland. The first match against them had been an embarrassment and if they were to stand a chance of making the Euros the team would need to do their best to keep the dreams alive. And somehow, the miracle happened. The boys in red won the match, thanks to the hero of the night, Xavi, and the collective mood was one of celebration.

As night fell in Las Palmas, the men of La Furia Roja chatted together outside the dressing rooms, with evening plans formulating quickly and groups beginning to splinter off for their own wild adventures. Raúl Albiol didn’t have anything concrete in mind, but seeing as they were near Silva’s home turf, he figured it might be fun to let the Canarian dictate where they ought to go to celebrate their win. Joaquín readily agreed with this plan and the pair of them flagged Silva down as he was exiting the locker room.

“So,” Joaquín grinned, eyebrows raised mischievously. “What’s the plan, Silva? Where are we headed?”

Silva looked perplexed, clearly unaware of his obligations as host. He looked between his two teammates, trying not to pout. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t act so dense! We’re here in your old stomping grounds. You know which clubs are worth hitting up!” Joaquín waggled a finger at Silva accusingly, though his smile was still firmly in place. “So let’s go. Get your shit. Where’s David? He’s coming too, right?”

Raúl noted that Silva’s face seemed to fall then, and he almost felt bad for letting Joaquín pounce on the Canarian like that, but then again the kid had to know what to expect. It was Joaquín. Tact had never been his strong suit. So he just stood there, arms crossed as he gave Silva a stupid, expectant grin, waiting for some sort of directions on where they were headed.

“He’s right here,” Villa said from behind the two eager men. He looked no more disgruntled than usual, hair perfectly coifed as was his habit. “And no, I’m not going. And neither is Silva.”

“Huh?” Joaquín stammered, clearly caught off guard by the Asturian's bold declaration.

“What do you mean?” Raúl frowned, jaw going slack a bit, deferring to Silva fully. The two David's might be close, but he knew better than to think Villa made decisions for the pair. Silva _always_ had a mind of his own.

“I mean Silva’s not feeling well. He was just telling me so a minute ago.” Villa said, circling around the pair of them until he was at Silva’s side.

Silva shot Villa an annoyed glare. “I can speak for myself, you know.” He rolled his eyes. Villa put his hands up in apology, though he still managed to look a bit smug. “But yeah, no, sorry guys. I think I’m coming down with something. Nausea. I think it’s a stomach bug, maybe.”

Raúl’s frown turned to a look of sympathy and he gave Silva a sympathetic pat on the forearm. “Aw, man. That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me,” Joaquín snorted. Villa lifted his chin, as though he was daring the Andalusian to press Silva about the validity of his illness. “And what about you, Guaje? Don’t tell me you’re experiencing morning sickness, too.”

“Hey, man, don't even start with me. I’m tired. I played my fucking ass off, in case you didn’t notice.” Villa snapped, though malice was noticeably lacking from his voice. They were all tight, they could stand a bit of teasing. “I’m gonna go crash. Maybe I’ll watch some pay-per-view or something. I dunno.”

Joaquín lightly elbowed Raúl in the gut. “You catch that? He’d rather jerk off to Skinemax than go out on the town with us. What a fucking tool.”

“Hey, fuck off!” Villa hissed and the pair of them pretended to box for a few seconds. Raúl snorted at that, looking over to Silva who seemed less than amused. His smile faltered a little at that. They'd been friends for years, so long they were practically brothers, and he knew Silva well enough to know when something was bothering him. Maybe he really was sick and it wasn't all an excuse to get out of a night of revelry.

“I really don’t feel well, guys.” Silva said, imploring them to knock it off and act like adults. He turned to look at Raúl then, smiling weakly as the older men teased each other a bit. “Look, I know a couple places in the city you guys might like. You can at least check them out, okay?”

The Valencian smiled and handed Silva his phone so he could type in the addresses. He mussed the shorter man's hair playfully, a goofy smile on his face. “Thanks, man. I hope you feel better. Take some aspirin and drink as much water as you can.”

“Yes, mother.” Silva gave his friend a warm smile and Raúl laughed cheerfully. “You two kids have fun. And stay away from the side streets. They're not dangerous, per se, but they aren't exactly welcoming to tourists.”

Joaquín and Villa finally ceased with their wrestling match and the older David slung an arm around the younger one. “Come on, puppy. Let’s get you to bed.”

“ _Gay_!” Joaquín snickered under his breath, tossing an arm around Raúl too as they headed out in the opposite direction, yammering in his enthusiastic and uncensored manner. “Come on, Chori, let’s get something to eat. I’m so hungry I could eat a man alive.”

 

— 

 

Silva and Villa arrived back at the hotel and managed to get up to their shared room without any of their other teammates stopping them and inviting them out for the night.  That was fortunate.  They both had decent poker faces, but neither especially enjoyed practicing the art of deception.  Lying didn’t feel good, even when it was completely necessary.  Some secrets weren’t meant to be told, they were simply too precious, too dear to disclose.  This said nothing of Raúl and Joaquín as friends or as people.  It was just the way of things.  

Villa followed after Silva into the hotel room and bolted the door behind them, looking over his shoulder as the younger man dropped his bag near the foot of his neatly made bed.  The two were silent as they moved around the room, settling in, preparing for the night.  Villa’s routine had it’s own intricacies, involving more grooming products than was strictly necessary as he primped and preened in the bathroom.  Silva meanwhile sat quietly on the bed and laid out his bed clothes, folding them neatly, then stripping down to nothing before folding his previous outfit up and packing it away.  He put his phone on the bedside table between the beds, checking the clock before putting it on silent.  He sat nude on the bed, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, waiting patiently for Villa to emerge from the bathroom.

“You’re ready then?”  The older man poked his head out, toothbrush still in his mouth.

Silva nodded.

“Good.”  Villa stepped back into the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth, returning a moment later, unfazed by the younger man’s nakedness.  “What time is it?”

“11:45.” 

“You should go then.”  

“Mm.”

Villa disappeared into the bathroom again, bringing Silva a fluffy white bathrobe.  He offered it to the man, trying to smile or look hopeful or at least not look as miserable as Silva did.  “Put this on, David.  You don’t want to flash anyone.  God forbid you come across a photographer.  Or some innocent kid.  Jesus, can you imagine?”  

He took the bathrobe, looking up at Villa with a resigned yet grateful familiarity.  He stood slowly and tugged the robe on, tying it loosely at the waist.  “Thanks, Guaje.  For looking out for me.”

The Asturian grinned then, full out and cheeky, and he lightly punched Silva’s shoulder for show.  “Anytime, puppy.  Now get out there and howl your little heart out.  I’ll hold down the fort.  It’ll be okay.”

Silva didn’t head for the door just yet.  Instead he lingered a moment, eyes meeting Villa’s just as he took in a deep breath.  As he breathed in, something flashed within him, something dark, needy, and wild.  As he inhaled, he could swear he was breathing in Villa’s scent in a way that no human ever could.  He could practically taste the salt of Villa’s sweat on his tongue, detect the individual fragrant notes of his aftershave, feel the particles of the soap he’d used in the showers earlier that evening.  Silva recognized that sensation all too well.  He only had a few minutes left.  “Guaje…” 

There was so much wrong with this situation, this awful set of choreography they’d been playing out every month.  There were a million reasons why this shouldn’t work out, why this conversation should never have had the chance to happen.  And yet, here they were, staring each other down, predatory amber eyes meeting the chocolate eyes of the prey.  It never should have come to this.  He never should have let himself get so exposed.  He felt so vulnerable, even after all that time.

“It’ll be fine.  Just come back.  That’s all you have to do.”  Villa still managed to smile, though it slowly began to fade.  It left his eyes last, like he didn’t quite want to let the moment go.

Silva just shook his head, inhaling again before quickly throwing his arms around Villa’s neck.  He rolled up on his toes, pressing his lips to Villa’s greedily.  The older man returned the kiss, murmuring something soothing into Silva’s mouth as he pulled him close.  The kiss was brief and needy, necessitated by the limitations of the moon.  No sooner had Silva slipped his tongue into Villa’s mouth than his phone vibrated menacingly from the nightstand.  The pair broke apart, both gasping a little as they stared at the phone.

“It’s 11:50.”  Silva said.  “I have to go.”

It was Villa’s turn to nod.  “Get out of here, then.  I’ll be waiting when it’s over.”

Silva bit his lip.  There was nothing more he could say, nothing to do besides offer up his most apologetic smile as he slipped toward the door and headed outside.  He had to get someplace secluded, someplace private and without prying eyes.  The poolside garden, perhaps?  Or one of the cabanas, closed for the evening?  Yes, that would do nicely.  So long as no one witnessed his transformation, everything would be fine.  He’d be back at dawn, Villa would be waiting for him, and no one would be the wiser.  He’d run around Las Palmas for a few hours, hunt rats and squirrels, maybe chase a cat or two.  It would be just fine.

As he stepped out into the cool November evening, he felt a wave of serenity wash over him.  The night was calm and beautiful, the moon was clear and bright, and of all the places in the world he might be, he was at home.  Gran Canaria, tranquil isle, Las Palmas, enchanting old city.  There was no place on Earth he'd rather be for his coming ordeal.   It was just your ordinary, run of the mill night of the full moon and David Silva was just your ordinary, run of the mill werewolf.  What could possibly go wrong?


	3. Chapter Two

“This music is fucking garbage,” Joaquín announced as he downed another shot. Raúl blinked at him, not understanding what he was saying over the throbbing sounds of German techno. He furrowed his brows, tilting his head so he could better hear his teammate. “Chori are you even listening to me?”

“Huh?” The younger man called out over the music.

The blonde laughed and shook his head, flagging over the nearest waitress and ordering another round.

The club wasn’t so bad, packed with tourists ready to dance and take in the balmy island night. With Spain having just won their match earlier in the night, the whole city seemed to want to join in the festivities despite it being a weekday, and Raúl found it difficult to resist the temptation. He wasn’t the hardest of partiers, but with that sort of atmosphere it was hard to say no. He and Joaquín had grabbed a bite to eat at the first place Silva had suggested before hitting the streets of Las Palmas, roaming from club to club, drinking, dancing, posing for photos with eager fans, and generally enjoying life. It was refreshing. It was fun. And it would be back to work in the morning. They had a match in Santander on Sunday so they’d have to leave their isle of paradise in a few scant hours. As such, it was best to live it up while they still could. The night was young, and so were they.

By midnight, Raúl was completely drunk. Propped up on a stool, half slumped against the wall, he watched in disbelief as Joaquín pounded back yet another drink. The Andalusian was quite a bit shorter than he was, but somehow he held himself together, with little indication that he was even intoxicated at all.

“Another!” The older man yelled, shoving a shot glass into Raúl’s hand. The younger man laughed and tried to turn it down. Between the pounding music and the seven or so drinks he’d consumed in the last couple of hours, his head was positively spinning.

He waved a hand at his friend, unsteady in his chair, words jumbling together in his throat. “Naw, man. I’m done.”

Joaquín snorted dismissively, “What _ever_ , Chori! Don’t give me that! You’re a fucking giant. You can handle a couple more shots. Let’s do this!”

“Seriously, I think I need to step outside,” he said, less slurred and more sure that time. He pushed himself up from his seat and awkwardly stumbled to his feet, lacking any and all coordination that might indicate that he was a professional athlete. “Fuck. It feels like the room is rocking back and forth.”

“I can’t hear you, bro!” His companion laughed, slapping his shoulder as he wobbled past. “Go get some fresh air. Take a minute. I’ll be here.”

Raúl nodded and staggered to the door, inhaling the warm night air as he tried to clear his head. The music seemed to permeate from the building itself, making his headache even worse. Without really thinking about it, he decided that a short walk around the block might be just what he needed to feel in charge of his senses again.

Las Palmas was a whole other beast at night. During daylight hours it was your typical island city, with beautiful Spanish style architectures mingling with more modern charms. It was warm, welcoming, sunny and bright. Raúl could certainly see the appeal of such a place, even if Valencia would always be home for him. At night, though, the city was something else. Those sweeping old buildings which gave Las Palmas an eclectic sense of character now seemed haunting and abandoned in the dark, out of place with the newer office buildings dotting the skyline. There was a sense of history to the city, the feeling that something old and sacred had been bulldozed and buried for the sake of the shiny and the new. Or maybe it just seemed that way because he was drunk and in a haze. Either way, Raúl decided he didn’t like it as he wandered the nearly empty, quiet streets.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been walking, his trance at last interrupted by his cellphone going off to indicate he’d received a few text messages. Frowning, he flipped open his phone.

 ** _6 new messages_**  
**From:** Joaquín Sánchez  
_hey_  
_chori?????????_  
_u coming back?_  
_where the fuck are you???_  
_did you go back to the hotel?_  
_call me back man this is fucked up_

“Shit!” He hissed, fingers fumbling with his phone as he frantically typed in Joaquín’s number. It rang and rang and rang before going to voicemail, then the automated voice informed him that the mailbox he’d dialed had not been set up. “ _Shit_!”

Raúl looked around, seeking anything in the buildings that might prove familiar and thus jog his memory about which way to go to get back to the club, to the hotel, to anyplace he might recognize. But in the night, Las Palmas looked unwelcoming, even a little bit spooky, and in from the water, he noticed a slow moving fog rolling in.

“This is just great! I’m fucking lost!” He wailed into the night. Then an idea occurred. Maybe Joaquín wasn’t picking up, but Silva totally would. His best friend from their youth days would surely come to his aid and give him decent directions on how to get back to safety. Grinning drunkenly, he pulled up Silva’s entry in his phone and dialed and waited.

No answer.

His brows knit in confusion. Maybe Silva was sleeping. He’d try again, to wake him up, so that Silva understood it was an emergency.

Again, there was no answer.

He decided he would try one more time, hitting the redial button as he shivered in the damp, cool embrace of the fog. When he again received no answer, he left a voicemail. “David! It’s Chori! I lost Joaquín! I’m fucking wandering around Las Palmas, I don’t know where the hell I am and I need you to get me home! Come on, buddy! Answer your phone, David! I need you, man! Okay, bye!”

Sighing, he had to reevaluate his options. He could either try calling them again, call Villa and risk _his_ unholy wrath, or he could take his chances and try to make it back by himself. And in his state of drunkenness, Raúl Albiol decided to go with door number three.

— 

David Villa sat alone in his hotel room staring mindlessly at the television.  There wasn’t anything worth watching on and he half-way considered actually ordering a pay-per-view porno when he glanced over at the nightstand between the two queen sized beds and noticed that Silva’s cellphone was vibrating and lighting up like a firework.

He raised an eyebrow, and briefly contemplated answering the phone, but thought better of it.  That would be rude.  And presumptuous.  And he wasn’t that kind of guy.  And besides, the phone had stopped ringing, so there was no longer the need.  Of course, he could always snoop through it and see who was calling, but that seemed like a dick move, even for him.  Sure, he liked to exercise a bit of control over himself and over various aspects of his life, but invading Silva’s privacy by going through his phone was totally off the table.  He wasn’t that kind of friend and he wasn't that kind of _boyfriend_ and he wasn’t that kind of person, period.

So instead he turned back to the television and futzed with the remote, deciding that yes, he _would_ like to watch some porn, thank you very much.  It would be a good distraction, if nothing else.  After all, it was a full moon and God only knew where Silva was or what agony he might be experiencing or creating that night.

At some point, Villa closed his eyes and drifted off as the sounds of exaggerated coitus lulled him to sleep, and when he dreamed, his mind called forth a memory.


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villa's dream— a memory/flashback.

**December 2006**  
**Valencia**

They were lying in bed together, sweating and naked, both on their backs staring up at the ceiling fan as it circled around and around above them. It was winter, December, a few days after Villa’s birthday actually, though that occasion had nothing to do with what they’d just done. It was only a pleasant coincidence, something they’d laugh about the next day in Villa’s car as he drove Silva home from training or on Sunday after the match against Deportivo. They wouldn’t talk about it in front of the others, purposely averting their eyes, in case the intensity between them reached critical mass and it became obvious to everyone that the two men were sleeping together.

Silva moved first, tugging the sheets up over their waists. He wanted to turn the fan off, but that would mean getting out of bed and leaving the security of the blankets and Villa’s arms. And he didn’t want to do that. Besides, he probably couldn’t walk in a straight line anyway. So instead he sighed, shivering a little, and curled on his side against the older man. Villa tilted his chin to look over at him with a teasing smirk.

“Really? Are we doing this? Are we cuddling right now?” 

“Yes, David. We’re cuddling. So shut up and cuddle me.”

Villa let out a long breath, as if he _could not believe_ he was being subjected to such an indignity, but he snaked both arms securely around Silva and held him closer, nuzzling him possessively until his nose was pressed firmly to Silva’s neck. “There? We’ve cuddled? Are you happy now?”

The Canarian let out a dreamy sigh, allowing himself the luxury of letting go and indulging in his most private emotions. It was only for a moment, and it was only with Villa around. He never let his guard down around anyone else. “Mhmm.” He was positively beaming as he carded his fingers through Villa’s already messy hair. “You know, I think I could stay like this forever.” 

“We can’t stay like this forever.” Villa mumbled into his lover’s skin, voice muffled, breath warm.

“I know that.” Silva sighed again, a bit of the dreaminess lost that time. “But if we could, I would want to.”

Villa was struck by that sentiment, not because he fancied himself some sort of romantic sap who got moved by great displays of emotion or something like that. He wasn’t like that in the least. It was difficult for him to express himself emotionally. His idea of romance involved lip synch-serenading Silva with Miguel Bosé ballads after fucking him in the shower at his parents’ house while no one else was at home. In other words, he wasn’t romantic, at least not in the traditional sense of the word, though he thought he at least understood that he loved Silva and would do anything in the world to be with him. He understood enough about himself to recognize that while he might not be able to express those feelings in his own words or through the traditional means of romance, he still felt those same emotions. He loved David Silva. And for some fucked up reason, David Silva loved him, too.

It had only been two months since they’d started sleeping together, since Silva had first asked him to come over after practice, while his family was back visiting Gran Canaria for a week. He’d parked his car out front and the two of them giddily snuck inside like a pair of schoolboys, high on adrenaline and wild with animal lust. 

They first fucked in Silva’s bedroom, quick, awkward, an overall messy and unsatisfying affair. They’d rushed things. It had been unpleasant. But in the aftermath, when they both sat up and looked at each other with newborn eyes, all was entirely forgiven. Silva had launched himself at Villa, kissing him with more fervor than Villa thought could possibly exist. And he’d whispered something low and soft against Villa’s throat, something which Villa could never ever forget.

“Have me?”

He hadn’t understood then what Silva meant. He’d already had him, hadn’t he? He’d bent the younger man over, kissed him, licked him, bit him, explored his body and come to possess it like it was an extension of his own before they’d even had sex. He’d done things with this kid that he’d been too terrified to do with anybody else. He’d never wanted to fuck a guy before, it had never even factored into his head until he met Silva. And yet there he was, holding onto this man like he was the most precious thing in the entire world, like his life depended on keeping Silva safe and protected and loved. He had Silva, he had all of him, and more importantly, Silva had him.

So rather than answer the kid straight away, he'd pulled him up and pressed their lips together gently, eyes drifting shut as he dragged his fingers down the notches of Silva’s spine. The Canarian had purred, just like a kitten, so sweet and aching, and they’d spent the rest of their free time that week in Silva’s parents’ house, touching each other, experimenting, and learning just how to get each other off.

Their first two months together had been a sort of blissful haze, fucking when they could while making magic together on the pitch. It wasn’t perfect, they weren’t exactly winning every match or anything, but the potential for greatness was there. The seeds were planted, and the chemistry was palpable. And Villa and Silva were practically joined at the hip. Others on the team noticed and teased Villa about his little shadow, but he didn’t care. In that very short time he’d begun to rely on the younger man and he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to play the game without him. How quickly he’d fallen under Silva’s spell.

But it wasn’t a spell. There was no such thing as magic. It was purely a chemical reaction, something in their brains which released every time they were in proximity to each other. It was raw and hormonal and primal and it felt so good. And it was emotional and expansive and it felt like it could extend into forever. Magic didn't exist, but eternity did, and it seemed tangible somehow.  Villa had never felt like that before. And as he lie in his bed with Silva breathing steadily against his neck, he recognized that he too would like to stay that way forever.

“We can make it close to forever,” he said, lowering his eyes to look at Silva straight on. 

The younger man pulled a confused face, sitting up so he was on his knees and looming over Villa. “What do you mean?” 

Unable to resist the opportunity to say something snide, Villa cracked a proud grin. “I mean we can’t physically stay in bed like this forever, but I’ll fuck you into the mattress again whenever you want.” He didn’t even see the pillow coming until it hit him squarely in the face. “Ow! Shit!”

“Fucker.” 

“David! That hurt, asshole!” Villa protested with a mercurial laugh as he pushed the offending pillow aside. It still sounded weird to say his own name and apply it to the person he was sleeping with. He was reminded briefly of this as he ran his hands through his hair and gave the younger man a playful look. “I was only joking. You were supposed to laugh.”

“It’s not a joke to me,” Silva said, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t pouting, but he was coming awfully close. And in that instant, he looked so open, so fragile that Villa’s heart just about broke at the sight of him. The older man sat up quickly and leaned in to kiss Silva as he continued to sputter a protest. “I’m trying to say I—”

Villa’s lips brushed against Silva’s in the sweetest, most chaste kiss either man could muster, and when Silva finally stopped trying to speak, Villa sat back and stared at him with his signature smolder. Silva instantly felt his stomach doing cartwheels. 

“I would spend forever with you, David.” Villa spoke haltingly, unsure how to articulate the feelings he needed to express. It was almost frightening, how exposed he felt as he stared into Silva’s amber eyes. Except when he blinked, he realized he wasn’t exposed at all. Silva knew him, had come to know him over the last five or so months, and while he’d be bearing his soul to him, he somehow understood that Silva already owned him. “I would spend every possible moment I could like this with you. If you wanted me to.”

Silva’s mouth twitched slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he should smile or not. He settled for gnawing on his lip, peeling the skin off with his teeth. Villa hated it when he did that. It was so unintentionally erotic, it made him feel weak. It made Villa feel wild and alive, so he grabbed hold of both of Silva’s shoulders and looked him squarely in the eyes. 

“Are you listening to me, Silvi? I want to be with you everyday. I want you with me all the time. I want you to pass me the ball so I can score and I want you to run to me and jump on me when I do and I want to fuck you every night for the rest of my fucking life. Don’t you get it? I want it to be like this forever. We can be like this forever.”

There was a distinct hint of agony in Villa’s voice that seemed to catch Silva off guard. His eyes narrowed then as he stared at his lover with such intensity that Villa almost wanted to squirm. 

“I don’t want you to fuck me,” Silva finally said, looking down at Villa’s bare chest for a moment before looking back to the older man's face. 

“What?” He didn’t get it. He thought he got it, but clearly he didn’t. And the disappointment was almost overwhelming. Had he been wrong? Had he misunderstood? Had he done something dumb like mistake sex for love? Fuck his life, seriously.

Silva held his gaze, unwavering in it’s intensity even as his cheeks turned pinkish. “I want you to make love to me, Guaje.”

Villa’s whole face lit up then, with relief and mischief and glee. “Oh fuck you. Really? Seriously?” And then he started to laugh.

The younger man blinked at him, brows slowly knitting into a look of rage, voice dropping to a snarl. “David—”

“Hold on a second!” Villa insisted, laughing, pleading with him, cupping both hands on Silva’s cheeks. “If that’s what you want, baby, you got it. I… don’t know if I can say it. I just don’t know. But I feel it. I’ve felt it every time you’ve looked at me. And I was hoping you’ve felt it too. Because if it seems like I’m just using you or something then I feel like a total asshole.”

“You _are_ an asshole.” Silva said flatly, closing his eyes for a moment before letting himself fall into the familiar security of Villa’s longing gaze. “But I do. I do know it. Even if you can’t say it, I’ve felt it. I felt it the first time you looked at me, you know?”

“Yeah. I know.” Villa drew in a long breath, then carefully tucked a strand of Silva’s hair behind his ear. “I’m fucking terrible at this.”

The Canarian snorted in agreement, because it was true. But then again, he’d never been in love with anyone else before, so he had nothing else to compare it to. Not firsthand, at least. Still, he analyzed his lover’s face, reaching out too to pet his hair, which was sticking out in every direction, then down his cheek and jaw and to his chin, to touch his stupid soul patch. Villa sat still as Silva petted him, watching the other man intently. Silva lowered his eyes, smiling just _so_. “You don’t think we’re moving too fast?”

“No,” Villa answered immediately, catching himself with a chuckle. “You struck me like lightning, kid. You fucking electrify me. You’re fucking magic. And I’m fucking magic when we’re together. So don’t deny me a taste of it now, Silva, because I can’t function without you. You’ve got me addicted.” He slumped back against his pillows then, leaving Silva sitting up alone. “Besides, you’ve been shamelessly in love with me from the moment we met. So don’t even try to deny that you want this as much as I do.”

Silva’s eyes went wide, mouth gaping for a moment before he burst into a full round of laughter. “Wow,” he said at last, rolling his eyes as he climbed on top of Villa, straddling him and positioning himself so that their hips were precariously aligned. This gave the older man a distinct feeling of helplessness that he almost-kind of-totally liked. Slowly, Silva craned down so that he could whisper into Villa’s ear, exhaling softly before he did. “You have me, Guaje. You’ll always have me.”

“And you’ll always have me,” Villa breathed, rocking his hips against the other man’s. “I mean it.” And he did.

Silva did that purring, growling thing again and it nearly drove Villa mad. He slid his hands up Silva’s sides, wanting to feel every inch of his skin, touch every part of him over and over again, commit his entire being to memory. He could touch and kiss him a hundred thousand times and each kiss would still seem like the first. Villa was sure of it.

“Mm. Good,” Silva sighed, rolling his hips down, shifting so that they could rut against each other and appreciate the sensation for a moment. They stayed that way, carelessly thrusting together, Villa’s hand finding it’s way around both of their cocks, drawing out plaintive and needy groans as they fell into a steady pattern. It was bliss. It was pure lust and sensation and magic and feeling, and it felt so perfect and right that he was sure, for the first time in his life, that he could do anything, be anything, so long as this man was here with him, to fuck him and make love to him and tease him and tell him he was a dick and pass the ball like he’s some mad genius magician. Villa moaned something as he caught Silva’s mouth with his, something that might have sounded like ‘I love you’, only it was obscured by tongues and teeth. And he wanted to kiss those perfect, bitten, swollen lips forever. And he would have, except an alarm started to go off and Silva suddenly jerked away.

“Oh fuck.” His eyes went large and he scrambled off of Villa, casting around for his phone on the nightstand.

Villa sat up quickly, to follow Silva, to stop him from doing whatever he was trying to do. “It’s your fucking phone alarm. Just turn it off.”

Silva stared at his phone, turned off the alarm, but then climbed out of bed and started searching around for his clothes. “I have to go.” 

“What? No! No you don’t!” If he weren’t so utterly dumbfounded, Villa might’ve laughed at the tone of his own voice. He sounded positively desperate. “What the fuck, man? We were just—” 

“I’m sorry,” Silva said, tugging his t-shirt on over his head. Actually, it was Villa’s t-shirt, but that hardly mattered now. “But I have to go. I completely forgot something I have to do tonight.”

Villa gave him the most dumbfounded look imaginable, then he turned to look at the bedside clock. “You have _a thing_ to do at 11:30 at night? Really?”

“It’s for my parents.” The younger man said, like that explained everything, zipping up his jeans even though he was still half hard. “It’s really important though, so I have to go."

“Incredible,” Villa deadpanned.  _ ‘I’m in love with a fucking child.’ _

Silva sat on the bed, pulling his shoes on haphazardly, turning back to face Villa before he rose. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The Asturian just nodded, still in utter disbelief at the abrupt change in their evening agenda, sitting still as Silva ghosted a kiss on his lips. “Do you need me to drive you?”

“No,” Silva shook his head as he went for the door. “I can walk.” He felt sick, burdened by his secrets, worn down by his curse. He would give anything to lay the truth out for Villa, to bare his soul to this man. Villa already knew him so intimately, Silva couldn't fathom that his lover would reject him for something he couldn't help. But he thought of his family and of what that secret meant to them. He couldn't put their lives in danger just because he was in love. But he _was_ in love. Damn everything to hell, he was completely, madly in love.  That wasn't supposed to happen, and especially not with someone like Villa. 

Silva pocketed his phone and looked back to Villa before leaving.  The older man gave him one last, longing look.  Silva just shook his head and then turned away, voice muffled as he shut the door behind him, “I love you, Guaje.”

Villa strained to hear the front door close behind Silva and he sunk back further into his bed. Eyes fixed squarely on the ceiling fan, he briefly considered getting up to turn it off, but that would mean leaving the comfort of bed and the secure scent of Silva that still lingered in it. Instead, he closed his eyes and willed his hard on to go away so he could get some fucking sleep. And he savored the last words Silva'd uttered as he left. _'He loves me. He fucking loves me. Ha!'_  


Outside his bedroom window, the full moon cast a bright yellow glow over Valencia, and for a split second, just before he fell asleep, Villa was nearly certain he heard the mournful cry of a wolf.


	5. Chapter Four

Villa woke from his dream disoriented and confused, half-way aroused by his imagination and half-way convinced he’d actually heard something howling outside of his window. He took his time sitting up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he tried to remember where he was and what he’d been doing before passing out. His eyes landed first on the television and the hardcore sex scene still playing out on the screen before his attention turned to the bedside table where Silva's cell phone was lighting up again.  
  
“Dammit, Silva,” he sighed as he reached for the phone, not mad so much as annoyed at being woken up. He frowned, seeing the name on the caller ID. Raúl Albiol. What the hell did he want at this god forsaken hour? Villa was a split second away from saying ‘fuck it’ and taking the call when the ringing and vibrating stopped. Albiol had hung up. Huh. Villa gave a shrug and dropped the phone on the bed beside him. He wouldn’t worry about it too much. Silva would get back to him in the morning, once his monthly saga was over.  
  
  
—

 

The streets were like a maze in the dark, veiled by the mist off the water which enveloped the all of Las Palmas in a thick, smothering curtain. Raúl had been wandering for hours, searching for a familiar building, a landmark, another pedestrian, _anything_ to help him find his way out of the night and into some comfort. He was on edge and starting to feel spooked. His feelings of terror were only intensified by the full, silvery moon which peeked out from behind the thick clouds every so often. It gave the city a haunted look, and it being November, it was deceptively cool. Not cold, mind, it _was_ Gran Canaria. But the temperature seemed to have dropped a good ten degrees over the last hour and the whole city took on a slimy, icy look. Raúl decided he hated it. He just wanted to go home.

After happening upon a park bench near a readable street sign, he decided to try Silva’s phone one last time. He dialed the number, looking around cautiously as he waited for an answer.

As the phone rang, he thought he heard something rustling in the shrubbery behind him, but when he turned to look back, there was nothing there at all. His ears were playing tricks on him, he was sure of it. And so was Silva, that dirty little bastard. Raúl hung up as soon as the call went to voicemail again. As he did, his phone cheerfully informed him that he had 5% battery life remaining— enough to make one more call.

That settled it then. He needed to get home, and there was only one person he trusted could rouse Silva and get him to give him directions to the hotel.

He had to call Villa.

 

— 

 

Villa switched off the lights and TV and was settling back into bed when his own phone started ringing. Brows knit, he stared at it for a moment before answering, suspicion in his voice, “Yes, Raúl?”

“Villa! Oh thank God! It’s me, Raúl!”

“Yes, I know that. What do you want?”

“Is Silva there? I need him and he’s not answering his phone!” The kid sounded so hopeful, so needy, Villa didn’t have it in him to be annoyed with him.

“He’s not feeling well.” The older man answered automatically, glancing over at the empty bed across the room from his. On it, Silva’s pajamas were still laid out neatly, folded up in tidy piles, waiting for Silva to return for them. It was an odd ritual between them on nights like these. In the nine or so months that Villa had been aware of Silva's condition, their little system worked out fine. No one ever noticed, no one ever said a word. And no one had ever called Villa looking for Silva during that time, either.

“Fuck! No! No, no! I need his help, Villa! You gotta wake him up for me! Please!”

Villa frowned, wasting the glorious expression on the non-present Raúl. “Look, did you need something? Is this something I can help you with?”

“Only if you can give me directions back to the hotel! I’m lost! And I have no idea where Joaquín went!” Raúl sounded desperate, so helpless it was almost laughable. He might have laughed at him, if he were a cruel person at heart.  The Asturian just sighed.

“Tell me where you are and I’ll come get you. Just, relax. You’re fine. You’re in Las Palmas, kid. What’s the worst that could happen?”

Raúl’s pout was somehow audible, as was the heightened anxiety in his voice. “You’re joking now, but I swear I think I’m being followed!”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m serious, Villa! My phone is _dying_ and I swear there is something out there in the mist _!_ ”

“It's probably a rat or something, calm down. Now tell me where you are and I’ll come get you, you idiot!”

“But how will you even find me?”

“I can look up directions. Just chill. Now where the fuck are you?”

Raúl at last sputtered out his thanks, along with the names of the cross streets near his bench. Villa instructed in no uncertain terms to stay right where he was, he’d be there to get him in fifteen, twenty minutes tops. Pulling on a hoodie, Villa shoved his phone into his jeans pockets and took off into the night.

 

— 

 

As he hung up the phone, Raúl noted that the rustling in the bushes seemed to grow louder. He turned and stared at the shrubs, spying nothing at first— but then he saw the outline of a figure. It was small and fuzzy, with a long, slender tail. 

“Oh man, just a rat,” he sighed, laughing at Villa’s prediction, a bit loud from his drunkenness and his fright. “Scram, buddy! I don’t have any cheese.” 

The rodent scurried out of its hiding spot and started to cross the cobblestone side street. Raúl watched it for a moment, sinking back against the hardwood of the park bench. With Villa en route, he could at least relax a little. He let his eyes close for just a moment and let the cool evening fog surround him. It wasn’t so bad, really, once he let himself accept it. The fog was refreshing, actually. When he breathed it in, he almost felt brand new. 

That’s when he heard it. It was a scraping noise, low, dull, almost imperceptible. Like soft claws on cement or stone. A rat’s claws? No, it couldn’t be. No rat was that noisy. Raúl opened his eyes, spotting the rat sniffing around on the street a few meters before him. It didn’t seem alarmed, so he figured that perhaps the rat had a larger friend somewhere in the mist. 

The growl a moment later only confirmed his suspicions. 

He sat up straight, looking around quickly but seeing nothing in the thick mist. But he’d heard  _something_ , there was absolutely no doubt about it. This time, when he looked for the rat, it was gone. That was definitely  _not_  a good sign. 

“Fuck…” he whispered, slowly rising to his feet. The precise moment he did so, a shape cut through the mist. It wasn’t a rat, unless rats were able to stand over three feet high at the shoulder and had thick, bushy black coats and pearly white teeth that were the very definition of fangs. No, he was not staring down a rat at all. He was face to face with a very large, very angry looking dog. “Nice doggie! Hi! It’s okay! Hey there, poochie! Hello!” 

The animal snarled at him, bearing it’s razored jaws, saliva spilling from it’s mouth in thick foam which contrasted with it’s impressive black ruff. As he looked it over, he couldn’t help but notice the massive paws, almost the size of his own hands, as well as the bright green eyes reflecting the silver of the moon. The more he stared at it, the more it began to sink in that this was no family pet let off leash. This was clearly a wolf. And this wolf was clearly out of it’s mind with rage as it stalked toward him quickly. He stumbled back, trying to get away, leaving the bench behind so he could get toward the nearest building for safety. 

“Easy, easy! I won’t hurt you, I swear! Good boy!” 

His gentle pleas went unheeded as the canine let out a sharp, throaty howl. Ears laid back, the animal took on a stance which Raúl recognized from Animal Planet as meaning it was about to attack. “Oh God!” He cried, and in that instant, the creature leapt at him and went straight for his throat. 

Now, Raúl was a big man, and he was well aware of his physical prowess and of how to manipulate his own body. But he was used to facing down men, not beasts, and this delayed his reaction time by a vital second or two. The wolf took hold of him by the windpipe and brought him down quickly. Raúl was impressed. He knew wolves were powerful, but damn. He began to slip, to lose his focus as the creature clamped it’s jaws around his neck and wrestled him to the ground. His head hit the cobblestone with a sickening thud and he blinked, stunned and unable to coordinate himself. 

The next to last thing he recalled before he lost consciousness was a second pair of paws, the hideous sounds of animal screams, fur and blood literally flying every which way, and the rotten stench of blood coating his nose and lips and face. 

Then, after a long, eternity of silence, Raúl felt something rough, yet tender on his face. A tongue. Something was licking him. He forced his eyes open, finding it next to impossible to focus, but just before he faded out again, he saw that the animal eyes which met his were amber.  What an odd color, he would have thought, if he could actually think straight.  He'd seen golden brown eyes before, but never on a canine. If he were able to think clearly, he might have been able to place those eyes and why they seemed so familiar. But everything hurt. He couldn't think. He could barely even breathe anymore.

“Nice puppy,” Raúl coughed weakly as his eyes rolled shut.  “Atta... boy...” His breathing changed, became more shallow and less effective, and either he'd gotten used to the smell of blood or he'd somehow lost his ability to smell anything as a result of the attack. He'd dwell on it later, if he made it out alive. The second wolf didn't react to the pained noises Raúl made from the ground.  It only stayed there beside him, and waited.


	6. Chapter Five

Villa hadn’t been too worried about Raúl until he approached the intersection where he said he would be. For some reason, the fog off the harbor seemed excessively thick in that neighborhood, more so than in the rest of Las Palmas, and it suddenly made sense that Raúl had become hopelessly lost in the fog. Still, there was no need for concern. Or at least there wasn’t until he got close enough to hear the sickening animal sounds emanating from the mist.  
  
“What the f—?!”  
  
Villa stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide in horror as he saw the outline of a lifeless man on the ground, blood dripping from wounds on his head and neck. Looming over him was a figure most dreadful; large, lean, hungry, with black fur splattered with blood and ivory colored fangs, hideous mouth lowered dangerously over the man’s face. That was Raúl on the ground! That wolf— that _monster_ was about to eat Raúl!  
  
Villa gasped at the sight, unable to process the scene before him as instinct kicked in. He sprinted ahead without thinking, letting out a most savage and desperate scream as he prepared to free kick the shit out of the animal. He ran towards them at full speed, teeth clenched, rage coursing through him when the wolf did something which made him stop dead in his tracks. It looked away from Raúl and looked straight at Villa, amber brown eyes suddenly illuminated in the moonlight which cut down through the fog, and as it did, it lowered it’s ears and let out a soft, pleading whimper as it stepped backwards in retreat. The animal, which by the looks of him could easily have ripped Villa’s muscles from his bones, seemed so docile, so submissive, so absolutely puppyish that the man felt immediately at ease. And not only that, but Villa realized in that very instant that he knew the creature and that he and Raúl had no reason to be afraid.  
  
Ignoring the possibility of further danger, Villa dropped to his knees beside the still unconscious Raúl and began checking out his injuries. A gash on the head, hit hard enough to knock him out, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Most distressing were the injuries to his throat. Raúl was still breathing, but his neck was bleeding profusely. Even in the pale light of the moon, Villa could see the tears and punctures which indicated animal bites. “Oh shit,” he hissed, real fear setting in again. He tore off his sweatshirt, to try to apply some pressure to the still bleeding wound with one hand while fumbling with his phone to call for an ambulance with the other.  
  
There would be a few minutes before emergency services arrived. Villa intended to use that time to interrogate the still present wolf.  
  
“Did you do this?” He asked, jaw set as he stared at the wolf. It gave no answer besides a sharp sniff as it paced around restlessly. “I know. I know you wouldn’t. But someone did this. Look at him! _Fuck_!”  
  
From the ground, Raúl began to stir. His eyes fluttered a bit, head lulling to the side. The Asturian’s eyes went wide with panic as he shushed his teammate, urging him to relax.  
  
“It’s okay, Chori, it’s okay. It’s me, it’s David. An ambulance is coming.”  
  
“D-David?” Raúl tried to say more, but his throat hurt and it felt like he couldn’t breathe.  
  
“Yeah, it’s me. Don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine. Just close your eyes and relax, man.”  
  
Raúl wanted to tell Villa that the way he said it made him think that maybe he was actually dying but he didn’t have the energy or the blood supply to say very much of anything at all. So instead he gurgled quietly and tried to nod. “Don’t hurt it.”  
  
Villa’s brows furrowed and he tried to wipe some of the blood from the other man’s face. “Don’t hurt what?”  
  
“The w-wolf,” he said. “The one over there. It… saved me.” Raúl closed his eyes again, too tired and in need of treatment to keep up the conversation.  
  
The older man exhaled sharply and held him close to his chest as he looked over at the wolf. It looked back at him, and Villa could almost swear he and the creature shared a moment of understanding between them. But that was impossible, not now, not in this form. He’d looked into those eyes so many times, had seen all manner of emotion reflected in them. Gazing into those familiar eyes now and seeing only a ghost of recognition there made his stomach churn. Villa wanted to scream out loud. He almost wanted to cry.  
  
Instead he just shook his head and whispered, voice and heart aching, “Silva.”  
  
The wolf didn’t react, didn’t move. It just stood there, glossy dark fur speckled with both the blood of Raúl and the blood of the other wolf, haunted eyes locked with Villa’s. Then suddenly it’s ears pricked up and it cocked it’s head to listen to the approaching sound of sirens piercing through the night. Villa turned to look too, cradling Raúl close, ready to protect his friend in case animal instinct kicked in and the wolf decided to finish the job. As he did, though, he immediately felt regret and remorse stabbing at his chest.  
  
He knew this wolf, knew it’s heart, knew it’s soul. There might be something cold and animalistic in those eyes, but he’d spent so much of the last year staring into them that he couldn’t help but feel as though he knew everything about him. He might be an animal, but inside was the man Villa loved. Underneath the lean, hungry, treacherous monster was Silva, and while it was tough to fight instinct, Villa understood that Silva was fighting very hard to suppress his wild need to kill. He’d protected Raúl, come to his rescue, fought off another predator, and his presence then prevented other predators from returning to finish them off.  
  
As the ambulance arrived nearby, Villa made sure to return the favor.  
  
“Go!” He commanded, shooing the wolf off with a hand. The wolf made no motion to leave, lips curved as he growled. “Go! Now! Before they find you! You have to go, Silva!” The paramedics were close by. They could hear the medics, but could not see them in the fog. The wolf looked in the direction of their voices, then back to Villa. “I’ll meet you in the hotel, Silva! Just go! _Please_!”  
  
“Hello? Emergency services here! Where are you?”  
  
Villa called out to them, “Over here! We’re over here!” And when he looked back, the wolf was gone.  
  
  
— 

The doctors said they’d never seen an attack that bad before. They said he’d need emergency surgery, but he'd arrived just in time. He’d lost a lot of blood, he’d need a transfusion, but they were optimistic. He’d be hospitalized for awhile, but there was no reason to believe he wouldn’t pull through. 

Villa sat in the waiting room, face pale as a specter’s as members of the team staff arrived in short order to collect him and console him and discuss what the hell had just happened to Albiol. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, though. He just wanted to go back to the hotel, strip out of his bloodstained clothes, and talk to Silva. That was too much to ask for though, with all the people buzzing around, asking him increasingly stupider questions. 

“So you’re saying he was just wandering around the streets alone and got attacked by some stray dog that bit him bad enough that he needs surgery to patch him up again?” One of the team staffers asked skeptically. “And of all the people, he just happened to call you and you just happened to go out looking for him? It’s really convenient that you happened to find him, isn’t it? I mean, what are the odds of that happening?” 

Villa looked up at the staffer with eyes that could kill and he was on his feet before he could tell himself to calm down. “ _Excuse me_? What exactly are you implying? Do you have any fucking idea what I’ve seen tonight? Huh? I saw my friend bleeding out on the goddamn pavement, half-eaten by a wild fucking dog! Do you know what that looks like? Huh? Blood  _everywhere_ , just fucking everyw—” 

“Hey, hey, easy.” Villa startled when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He turned quickly to see it belonged to a concerned looking Iker. Beside him stood an unamused Xavi staring down the staffer, who was holding his hands up and retreating. The other staff members seemed to take that as the cue to disperse as the two captains gathered around Villa. 

“Are you alright?” Xavi asked, eyes narrowed at the staff as they left. 

Villa nodded, lowering his eyes. He wasn’t alright, not really, but he was so exhausted, he couldn’t explain everything to them now even if he wanted to. “You guys didn’t have to come.” 

Iker snorted. Xavi did too. Villa almost smiled at that. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but privately he was glad for their presence. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Iker said and gave Villa’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “You’ve had a rough night. We figured you could use some company.” 

He looked between them, then down at his bloody shirt. ‘A rough night’ was basically the understatement of the century. Still, he had a reputation to uphold, so he gave a slight shrug. “I could use a strong drink is what I could use. And a fucking shower. Look at me!” 

“You look like shit.” Xavi said, unflinching and deadpan as he ever was. “Come on. We’re not doing Albiol any good by sitting around here. He’s in the best place he can possibly be right now.” 

“Yeah. And we’ve all got to fly out today. It’s almost 5am. You can still get a few hours of sleep before it’s time to check out of the hotel.” Iker cocked a brow, imploring Villa unwittingly. “And besides, Silva’s probably worried to death about you.” 

The Asturian perked up at Iker’s words. Wherever he was, he was certain that whatever shred of human cognition which was present within Silva was out of his mind with fear and concern, not just for Villa but for Chori too. Silva and Raúl had been friends for years, since they were teenagers, and while Villa didn't quite understand the extend of Silva's capacity for human emotion and connection and memory while transformed, he knew the younger man would be completely beside himself once he fully realized what had happened that night.

He had to be there when Silva got back. He couldn't let him face the trauma alone.

Dawn would still be a couple of hours off, but he had enough time to get back to the hotel and get changed and ready to see Silva when he crept back in. They’d have a lot to talk about as soon as the younger man returned to their shared room. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s get out of here.” 

And with the help of the two captains, Villa returned to his hotel room, showered, changed, and crawled under the comforter to await Silva’s arrival.  Iker and Xavi would handle everything else.


	7. Chapter Six

Silva made quite a ruckus as he returned to the hotel room, banging quickly at the door to get the other man’s attention. Post-transformation he was entirely nude, save for a towel he’d managed to nick from a poolside lounge chair on his way in. Never one to be fully at ease with his own nudity, he held the towel tight around his waist, knocking again as he waited for response.  
  
Villa went to the door immediately, black circles under his eyes, face pale from lack of sleep and abundance of worry. He stepped aside to let Silva in. Silva halted just inside the door and stood there and watched him, unsure what he should say or do, if anything at all. As tired and terrified as Villa looked, Silva faired even worse, except his state was exacerbated by having spent the night out of control and in the form of an animal. He’d had very little control of his actions or senses, and very little in the way of actual concrete memories of the night before. He didn’t know what to do or what to say. He didn’t even know if Raúl was dead or alive, not even by Villa’s expression. He wanted to ask, wanted to comfort Villa and be comforted by him, wanted to somehow wake up from this nightmare and be free of his curse, but there was no way and nothing he could say or do to make anything any better. So instead he just stared at Villa, imploring him to do something, not just let him drown there in fear. Luckily enough, the older man seemed to pick up on his subconscious pleas and reacted first.  
  
“ _Fuck_ , Silva!” His voice was rough, ragged, pleading. Silva felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. 

“I’m sorry. I tried to stop it, I—” He swallowed hard, unable to move. “Is Chori… is he alright?” 

Villa didn’t say anything at first, fixing Silva with a stony gaze. Gone was the heat that normally seemed to radiate from his eyes, in its place was something cold, harsh, forcibly uncaring. Silva almost shivered from the lack of warmth. “He’s in the hospital. They’re performing surgery right now.” 

“But he’s alive? He’s going to survive?” There was no mistaking the utter desperation in the younger man’s voice. 

“He’s going to survive, yes.” 

At the pronouncement, Silva finally took a few steps toward Villa, unsure of himself. He paused, inches from the older man, then rushed him, throwing his arms around Villa’s neck, pressing their bodies close together, not caring that the stolen towel fell forgotten to the floor. Emotion and instinct took over and without thinking, he buried his nose in the crook of Villa’s neck, not kissing him, not biting him, just breathing him in. Villa reacted in kind, though a bit slower on the uptake, arms wrapping around Silva protectively, own stroking down his back while the other petting and tangled in his shaggy hair. Silva still smelled of blood. He smelled of saliva and sweat and animals. He smelled as though he’d been to hell and back, not like a man but like a beast. Villa didn’t care though. His lover was back and safe, and Raúl would be safe, too. In a few weeks time, it would be like this was all a bad dream. He kissed the top of Silva’s head to emphasize that to himself. 

After a time spent standing there, holding each other with such intensity, Silva drew in a long breath and spoke. “He’s going to be cursed now.” 

Villa pulled back slightly, eyes going wide. “What do you mean he’s going to be cursed?” 

Silva licked his lips, real fear present in his golden brown eyes. “He’s been turned, David. You can’t survive a werewolf attack and—“ 

“A  _werewolf attack_?” His eyes narrowed. Had  _Silva_  been behind the attack all along?  Villa had all but banished the possibility from his thoughts.  He didn't want to even entertain the idea, wanted to trust that his lover would never hurt anyone.  And yet, the doubt wedged its way in.  “Silva…” 

“It wasn’t me! You know I didn’t do this!” Silva said, eyes narrowing at his lover. “But I’m hardly the only werewolf on Gran Canaria.” 

He made a good point there. Thinking back to when he’d first learned that werewolves were actual beings, and not just fairy tale creations meant to scare the shit out of little children, Silva had explained to him that Gran Canaria was the ancestral home of the lycanthropes. It made sense that the island would have more than one werewolf prowling around it. And it had been a full moon that night. 

“Do you know who did this?”

Silva shook his head. “There are a lot of us, David.  I don't personally know every werewolf on the planet.”

Right.

“The doctors said it was a dog bite.” 

“The doctors wouldn’t know any better. Not unless they’re werewolves themselves.” The Canarian stepped away from his lover and entered the bathroom. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and winced. He looked far worse for wear than usual, even after a night spent on the prowl. No, scratch that, he looked like shit. Frowning, he turned over his shoulder to look at Villa. “He has a month before he’ll experience his first transformation. I’ve got to tell him, David. I’ll have to out myself.” 

The Asturian folded his arms over his chest and stepped over the discarded towel to get to Silva. He knew what turmoil it must be to have to share such a personal and horrific secret. Lycanthropy was a part of Silva’s DNA, part of his soul even. It had taken him months to feel safe enough to confide his curse to Villa, and they’d been sleeping together and all but confessed their undying love for each other… maybe not in so many words, but the sentiment was felt and understood by them both. There were emotions involved, real, actual, _intense emotions_ , and Silva  _still_  worried that Villa might reject him. Oh, sure, it had taken a great deal of convincing that Silva wasn’t **a)** pulling his chain; or **b)** completely delusional, but after seeing the transformation take place right in front of his face, he finally accepted that werewolves were an actual thing and that his lover was one. That is to say, he already trusted Silva completely and he’d had quite a time of wrapping his head around the concept. What the fuck was Raúl Albiol going to do? How would he take the news that not only were werewolves real, but his buddy since his teenage years was a werewolf, and _oh by the way_ , he was one now, too? Not to mention the potential dangers associated with the revelation. Silva’s inner turmoil was not lost on his boyfriend, not for one second. He reached for Silva and ran a steady hand along his bare shoulder. 

“You want me with you? You know, for moral support?” 

He was touched by the offer, he really was, but there were some things a man had to do on his own. Revealing himself as a werewolf to his friend who was now also a werewolf was one of them. Silva shook his head. “I need to do this alone. But thanks.” 

Villa nodded, forcing himself to smile. “No problem, puppy.” Silva’s eyes lit up a little, a hint of fondness breaking through the somber expression clouding his features. “You should shower though. You smell like a wet dog.” 

The younger man rolled his eyes despite the grave situation, lunging forward to peck Villa on the cheek. The numerous problems posed still weren’t solved, Chori was still injured, Silva still felt exposed. But he could appreciate Villa’s attempt to distract him, at least for the moment. It reassured him, the way Villa seemed able to read the situation and respond in just the way he needed.  “That’s what you get for dating a werewolf.” 

“Like I had a choice.” Villa muttered, ruffling Silva’s hair. “I’m not even a dog person, you know.” 

“Liar,” Silva said, a quick retort. He turned his back on the other man and went to the shower. “You are completely in love with me.” 

“And that has nothing to do with the fact that you smell like shit.” He began to leave the room, then looked to Silva, warmth returning to his expression. None of this would be easy, and truth be told he was worried for Silva and Raúl.  But he wouldn't interfere, not unless Silva asked him to.  The world of lycanthropy was still a foreign one, one he could never fully understand.  He could only love who he loved and do what he could to protect Silva as a man.  “I’m going back to sleep. We’ll figure this all out, David. It’s gonna be okay. I swear it is.” 

Silva looked back at Villa then and pulled a faint smile. It didn’t quite reach his eyes, but it was the best he could manage for the moment. “I know, Guaje. I know.” 


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artistic liberties have been taken regarding Silva's family tree. :)

**July 2000**  
**Arguineguín, Gran Canaria**

David Silva’s father came from a long line of werewolves, on both his maternal and paternal sides, though none had been born in the family for two generations until David was born. The recessive condition didn’t always present in every generation, and the last werewolf in the family had been his paternal great-grandmother. Those who recalled her in her youth remembered her as a spirited woman, sharp and witty, the life of every party. She loved dancing, and more than that she loved to sing and would entertain visitors to her home with love songs she’d compose on the spot. And she loved to play with the children in the neighborhood. She climbed the tallest trees, ran around with the boys, wrestled with dogs, and so on.

When she finally married and had children, her home was one of laughter and joy, a gathering spot for the neighborhood children. Relatives recalled stories of how she’d chase the kids around in the yard, playing with them, always smiling. And she’d teach the children songs, making up a song for every child she met. She lit up the world, they said. She was a sun and the rest of the island orbited around her.

Silva always felt a connection to this woman he never met, even before he knew of his condition or of their shared recessive bond. It was the stories told of her, the anecdotes of a playful, vibrant woman who adored the spotlight and beyond that adored making people smile that appealed. When he felt his confidence lacked in any arena, he sometimes thought of her, of what it must have been like to have the world eat out of her hand, to have everyone she met fall under her spell. She had a strength, as self-assuredness that he sometimes felt he lacked. She said what she liked and took what she wanted, and sometimes those qualities were entirely enviable. He liked to remind himself, when he needed to, that she was a part of him. Her spirit lived in his body now. Whatever confidence he lacked he could draw from her.

Those feelings came to a head the first time he transformed. He was fourteen, an awkward age for any boy, and it was on the eve of his departure for a trial with Real Madrid. He was under a great deal of pressure, from his parents, from himself, anxious and on edge, and then it happened. He’d been fast asleep in his bed, probably dreaming about football when he bolted straight up, gasping for air, chest constricting. He thought he was having a heart attack. Perhaps he was. Either way, the pain was immeasurable, but that was just the beginning. He looked at his hands, noticed to his horror that they could barely be called hands anymore. They were mangled, twisted claws, hooked and sharp and  _changing_  right before his eyes like something from a nightmare. Under the covers, his feet and legs were changing too.

Bones cracked as they expanded.  Muscles seemed to rip apart, contorting unnaturally.  All at once, every hair on his body pushed through his skin.  He must have shouted, must have screamed or cried, the agony was so great, because a moment later he saw his mother standing in the doorway, hand to her mouth as she silently shrieked.  He didn't recognize his voice though.  The only sound he heard was the hideous scream of an animal.  He caught a flash of motion behind his mother, registered it as his father, and then his vision and memories fade, along with any sense of himself until morning.

He came to in a garden several blocks from his house, covered in dirt and sweat and rain water, collapsed on the ground beside a dead rodent which appeared to have been partly eaten by some sort of predator. Silva recoiled in horror, then scrambled to find something to hide behind before he noticed his father’s car sitting across the way. In the early dawn hours, he had no real chance of being spotted, but he was still frightened and embarrassed as he sprinted to his father waiting in the car. He climbed into the car and his father immediately offered him a bathrobe to wrap himself in. Neither spoke as his father pulled away, driving past their house and out of the neighborhood toward a secluded area. Silva’s heart was pounding. He’d never been so scared or confused in his entire life.

“Dad?” He asked finally, clutching the shoulder strap of the seatbelt, holding onto it like a lifeline.

“David,” his father answered, putting the car into park near a palm grove. He turned to look at his son and Silva felt himself start to crumbled under his father’s scrutiny.

“What happened? What’s wrong with me?”

The older man kept a strong, stony face as he explained everything. Lycanthropy. Werewolves. There were thousands around the globe, bred or bitten, and David Silva was one of them. His great-grandmother had been one, as well as two of her siblings and father before her. None of her children or grandchildren had developed the condition, but it was known to lie dormant in families for generations. Silva’s father recalled hearing of one family who had none born for one hundred years before a descendant finally presented. The family secret was kept close, only passed on to certain relations in case the curse made an appearance. Otherwise, it was decided that it was best for all if it was kept quiet.

He sat there in stunned silence, listening to his father deliver his speech as if he were sentencing his son to death.  Silva had never been so terrified before and he felt smaller then than he ever had in his life.  He wanted to dismiss it all as a prank, wanted his father to crack a smile and tease him for sleep walking, to reassure him that it had all been a nightmare, but he saw the graveness in his father's eyes, and he still recalled the horror of his mother's cries ringing in his ears like a bell.  It hadn't been a nightmare.  It was all real, all true, real as the blood and fur trapped under his finger nails, real as the mud which caked his hair and stained his skin.  This was his truth now.  This was his death sentence, or his destiny.

“You’re going to be fine,” his father said firmly, putting his hand on his son’s shoulder. “We’ll deal with this as a family, as we always have. But this changes things for your future.”

Silva’s eyes went wide. He’d had to take in so much, completely rearrange his sense of self and reality. What more could be asked of him today? “What are you… what do you mean?”

He decided he didn’t like the look in his father’s eyes. “You cannot go to Madrid, David.”

The boy’s heart nearly fell through his stomach. “What? No! No! I have to go! You can’t— ”

“We can’t risk it, David. I know this is painful, but you could be exposed. Your life could be endangered, and the lives of every other werewolf in the world.”

His face twisted and he let out a pitiful cry. Normally he was calm, level headed, almost impassive. His family often remarked on how unflappable he could be. But this was a cut too deep. He couldn’t give up football. He couldn’t sacrifice his dreams, not when he was on the cusp of something great with Madrid. His whole life was leading to this moment, to leaving Gran Canaria and exploring the rest of the world. And he was a  _good footballer_. He might even be great. How could he give up everything right when it was within reach?

But on the other hand, could he really risk his life and the lives of others, just for the sake of his own ambition? Was he really that selfish? No, he wasn’t a selfish person. He was kind. He was thoughtful. He’d always thought he was, at least. But he always thought of himself as a footballer, too. He couldn’t conceive of himself without the very thing that gave his life purpose and meaning. He wasn’t selfish, but he wanted to live, and David Silva couldn’t live without football.

“Trust me,” he said, practically  _begging_  his father, grasping the man’s hands with both of his. “I’m responsible. I’m smart.”

His father half-nodded but otherwise seemed unwilling to budge.

“Dad, please! I have to live with this for the rest of my life. You can’t take away the only thing I’ve ever wanted just because something bad might happen! Something bad might happen if I stay here for the rest of my life! I might get caught next month! Or, or, or…” He paused, catching his breath. “Someone else might get caught. Another werewolf might expose everything. You can’t ask me to forget everything I love because someday something might happen. Dad, don’t you trust me?”

His father listened, silently proud of how collected, calm, and articulate his son was, even in the face of such a horrible burden. He smiled at last, reaching to wipe a smudge of mud from David’s cheek. “I have always trusted you, my boy. You’re wise beyond your years, and so constant, so responsible, so mature. Your mother and I have always been so proud to have a son with these qualities.”

“I’m still me, aren’t I?” Silva asked, pleading with his eyes. “I’m still your son. This…  _condition_ , or whatever, doesn’t change my mind and it doesn’t change my heart.”

“You are who you have always been. This changes nothing.” His father agreed.

“Then let me go. Please. I can’t live if I can’t go.”

“David— ”

“I’m not threatening, I’m not being rash— ”

“I know, son, I know. But you have to understand our fears.”

Silva laughed sharply. “Nobody is more scared right now than me. Please. Don’t take this away from me. Please.”

The two of them sat quietly in the car for a few minutes, older man drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, boy watching him, breathing in shakily, neither saying a word. Until, “I will go with you to Madrid.”

Silva’s entire face lit up. “You mean it? I can still go?”

“Yes,” his father said, turning the key to start the car again. “I’ll go with you and we’ll navigate this together. Now let’s get back to the house before your mother has a fit.”

He broke down and cried on the drive home, exhausted, nervous, a wreck of every emotion after the long night and morning. But his dream was still alive. He still could play football and indulge his fantasy that he might be good enough to be a pro someday, that he’d win trophies and titles, that the world might know his name. He had so many questions, genuine concerns about himself and his true nature, and he had so much he needed to figure out. But his dream was alive. He’d kept his dream alive, bit into it, wouldn’t let it go.

“It’s going to be difficult for you.” His father looked him over before they entered the house.

Silva nodded, wiping his face on the sleeve of the bathrobe “I know. It will be fine. Trust me.”

His father smiled then, and reached over to ruffle his son’s hair. “I do trust you.”

And just like that, David Silva's future was destroyed and rebuilt again.


	9. Chapter Eight

Raúl had had to spend an extra two weeks in Las Palmas in hospital recuperating from the surgery, but the doctors assured him that he would make a full recovery, and that with any luck he’d be fit to play by the end of the winter break. That happy news sent waves of relief through both the National team and Valencia, even as he found himself cursed to spend December stuck training by himself under medical supervision. He’d be alright, and that was what mattered.  
  
Of course, his sunny outlook faltered slightly once Silva sat him down for the tough ‘werewolves-are-real-and-by-the-way-you’re-one-of-them-now’ talk. Silva had asked Villa for a ride over to Raúl’s place late one night so that they could talk in private. It was about a week before Christmas, only a few days before the next full moon. Raúl would experience his first transformation then, and Silva was determined that he wouldn't be left alone for the ordeal. And it would be quite an ordeal. Villa'd only briefly witnessed what Silva went through every month, as he realized the younger man wanted to shield him from the horrific consequences of witnessing a complete full moon transformation, but what he had seen had completely fucked with his head. No words could quite encapsulate the visceral terror of witnessing a man's body bend, twist, stretch, shift into that of a massive furry beast. Bones cracking, the inhumane cries of pain. Just thinking of the one time he'd seen a few tortured seconds of Silva's body morphing into an animal's made Villa feel sick inside. No one should have to go through that, especially not on their own. Sometimes he wished he was strong enough to help Silva through it each month, but he wasn't there. Not yet, anyway.  
  
Villa ultimately sat alone in his car and listened to the radio for almost two hours before Silva emerged and silently dropped into the passenger seat. He watched the younger man expectantly, and when he said nothing, Villa finally made a prompting gesture with his hands. “Well?”  
  
Silva chewed on his lower lip, not in a nervous way, and not in the sexy way Villa liked either. He was more pensive than anything else. Unsure. He took in a deep breath before slowly turning his head to face his lover. “He took it okay. I think.”  
  
“You think?”  
  
“He’s in shock, David. It’s a shocking thing, you know. This is literally life altering information.” Silva’s eyes narrowed a bit. He wasn’t angry, but Raúl deserved a bit more patience and a great deal of sympathy. He was cursed now and he had to live with it. It was a lot to process. Silva had had an entire lifetime to come to terms with lycanthropy, and Villa had had nearly a full year to let it settle. Raúl deserved longer than an evening to take it all in.  
  
“I know.” Villa wasn’t unsympathetic, he just didn’t enjoy the look of worry on Silva’s face. The younger man had so much to cope with, so much weighing him down, and his affection for Raúl would only compound his anguish. Villa hated that, hated the very idea that Silva might suffer at all, let alone over something beyond his control like that. It ate him up inside. “Listen, we both know I’m shit at this, but—”  
  
“You’re not shit at this. This is just a shitty situation.”  
  
“Yeah, I know, but just listen. If there’s anything I can do for you, or for him, just…” Villa had taken hold of Silva’s hand, running his thumb over Silva’s knuckles. Silva finally stopped destroying his lip and managed a smile as he shifted in his seat.  
  
“Actually, there is something you can do.” He brought Villa’s hand to his mouth, kissed it delicately.  
  
“Yeah?” The older man grinned at him, wanting to be useful.  
  
“Yeah.” Silva took a beat to breathe. “It’s Joaquín.”  
  
“ _Joaquín?!_ ” Villa’s face fell.  
  
The Canarian nodded. “He’s been a wreck, he feels completely guilty about losing Chori that night and he won’t stop moping and worrying, and he’s been calling Chori all the time and it’s just a mess. Someone has to do something, David.”  
  
He studied Silva’s face a long moment, not really sure what he was looking for besides some reassurance. Dealing with Joaquín when he was in a mood could be a trying task, but Albiol and Silva certainly had enough on their plates. If this was the slack he had to pick up, so be it.  
  
So he nodded and he sighed through his nose. “Okay. Leave it to me, babe.”  
  
Silva rewarded Villa with his most serene smile, relief washing over him. “You’re the best.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.  And don’t you ever fucking forget it.”  
  
“Never in a million years,” Silva whispered as he leaned in to kiss Villa’s nose.  
  
As Silva pulled away, they held each other’s gaze for a poignant moment, neither one uttering a word for the longest time, neither breaking the connection between them until the intensity became too much to bear. Villa looked away first, closing his eyes before turning the ignition and driving them out into the cool winter night.  This ordeal wasn't over, not even close, and for some reason it felt like it was just the beginning.  
  
  
—  
  
  
The attention had been nice for awhile, especially after enduring the pain of surgery and the initial weeks of recovery. But he didn’t like the spotlight all the time. Raúl was a footballer because he loved to play football and was good at it.   He wasn’t in it for the tabloids or the attention. He played out of love for the game, and because he knew nothing else in life.  
  
Of course, everything he knew about life and the world had been thrown under a fucking bus when Silva appeared in his living room to tell him that he was a werewolf. How is one _supposed_ to handle that anyway? It’s not like that’s an everyday, common sort of conversation that one just _has_ with their best friend. Not in the real world, at least. Because it’s freaking preposterous.  
  
But Silva had worn him down, convinced him that it was all real. He wasn’t sure _what_ Silva had said to get it to sink in, but Raúl recalled sitting back in his sofa and feeling consumed with fear, and he remembered Silva putting both of his hands on his shoulders to steady him, calm him.  
  
“I’ll be here with you, Chori.” Silva spoke with such conviction that Raúl had no other choice but to nod. “I’ll come over early and we’ll do it together. I’ll show you what I do. That way you won’t be alone.”  
  
If he were the crying type, Raúl would have broken down and sobbed like a little baby right then. Instead he took in a ragged breath and leaned against Silva, head resting on his friend’s shoulder. Silva tilted his head to look down at him, expression a mix of sympathy and strength.  
  
That’s when it hit him. That’s when it really sank in that everything Silva said was true. It wasn’t the words which made it. It was the look in Silva’s eyes. Golden brown, like honey, or amber. In a flash, it all came back— the wolf that had saved him that night had eyes that same warm shade of brown.  The wolf had been Silva.    
  
He felt himself go numb.  “You never told me. How come?”  
  
Silva tensed up, shifting in his seat. “It’s not something you can just go around telling people. I… I haven’t…” He trailed off, at a loss for words.  
  
“No one else knows that you’re… ?” Raúl asked, opening his eyes, not sure if he believed that.  
  
Silva bit the inside of his cheek, hesitating. Raúl watched him expectantly. “Villa. Villa knows.”  
  
Raúl’s face faltered a little. He hadn’t expected that answer. Not that it was completely shocking or something, but still. He puzzled over this, the gears turning in his head until suddenly a lightbulb went off. His eyes lit up. Silva’s cheeks went pink.  
  
“Are you serious?” Raúl whined, eyes wide as saucers. “You and him? _Really_ , David! Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“We haven’t told anyone.” His voice was soft. Raúl felt like an intruder, but Silva had been his friend for so long. He could be trusted with secrets. He really could.  
  
“What else haven’t you told me?” Raúl tried not to sound hurt, without much success.  Between the whole ‘surprise you’re now a werewolf’ thing and this revelation about Silva and Villa, he suspected that Silva didn’t trust him with anything. If he kept the big stuff from him, chances were he kept a lot of smaller secrets too. And after years and years of friendship, didn’t they trust each other? Raúl certainly trusted Silva.  
  
Silva frowned at him. He liked Raúl, considered him one of his oldest friends, but he didn’t exactly appreciate the intrusion on his privacy. He didn’t owe Raúl an explanation of his relationship, and he was under no obligation to explain his lycanthropy to anyone. That said, Raúl was owed a bit of sympathy. The situation sucked, beyond compare. He’d need time to process and grieve and come to terms with the monumental changes it would mean for his life. And Silva couldn’t be mad at him for that.  
  
“Can we talk about my sex life some other time?” He said at last, pleading with his eyes. Chori nodded and settled back into the cushions. Silva turned to him, eyes cold, mouth set into a thin line. “Look, it’s really important that you keep this quiet, Raúl. If anyone were to find out that we’re werewolves it could ruin everything. Not just _our_ careers, but maybe even our lives, and the lives of every other werewolf. You have to promise me you won’t tell anyone.”  
  
Raúl swallowed hard. It still hurt to do that, but the reflex was instinctive. His eyes met Silva’s and he understood the gravity of the request. Telling could mean life or death. Telling wasn’t an option. “All right. I promise. This is just between you and me.”  
  
Silva’s lip twitched into a small smile and he leaned in to embrace his friend. Raúl accepted the hug, completely enveloping the smaller man with his large arms. The sight might have been comical had either of them been in any mood to joke around.  
  
“I’ll come by early. We can eat first and then we’ll…” Silva paused, standing up to leave.  
  
“Yeah.” Raúl said, watching him go.  
  
“I’ll see you then.” Silva nodded as he let himself out.  
  
“Yeah.” Raúl said to the closed door, overcome by something raw and aching inside of him.  Maybe he was the crying type after all, because as soon as he heard Villa's car peel away outside, he let himself break down.  
  
  
—   
  
  
For as well as Raúl had taken the news and seemed to be dealing with the fallout of the attack, the rest of the country was generally out of sorts. The media fell into a frenzy, parked outside the Las Palmas hospital waiting to snap photographs of trainers, players, family members, anyone who might provide a comment on the incident. And who could blame them? It wasn’t everyday that a member of La Furia Roja got attacked by a ferocious wild dog while walking through a major metropolitan tourist destination. News reports flooded the airwaves on the strange and unusual happenings which had occurred in Las Palmas over the years, with the travel industry and local government insisting that this was an isolated incident, not indicative of an ongoing trend of dog attacks.  
  
Once Raúl’s recovery was ensured, the incident became the subject of late night comedy routines and the punchline for playground jokes, and aside from a few noticeable scars across his throat, there was very little in the way of a reminder of the dog attack. His return to the pitch in Valencia in mid-February was met with great fanfare, a hero’s welcome. All the Valencian papers had a photo the next day of Raúl smiling, embracing his teammates, with headlines welcoming him back. The rest of the country had moved on to other pressing news by then.  
  
By the time Spain won the Euros the following summer, Raúl Albiol’s wild night in Las Palmas was more or less forgotten, and quite frankly, he was glad to keep it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time skip ahoy! This chapter concludes 'part 1', and we're leaping ahead to June 2009 in the next chapter.


	10. Chapter Nine

**7 June 2009**   
**Baku, Azerbaijan**

The atmosphere at the hotel dining room was one of utter excitement. With one friendly match ahead of their trip to South Africa for the Confederations Cup, the men of La Furia Roja were practically buzzing as they reconvened for the first time in two months. Anticipation was high— they’d gone two and a half years without a loss and were eager to keep the momentum going ahead of the tournament, and most of them were still riding the high from the Euro the year before. And with some new blood having joined in recent months, the energy levels seemed to skyrocket along with the collective optimism that they were the best team in the world and could do absolutely no wrong.

After a brief training session in Spain, they’d shipped off to Azerbaijan for the friendly. There hadn’t been a lot of time to visit and catch up before boarding the plane, and with most of them still exhausted from the end of the season, they opted as a team to sleep rather than socialize on the flight in. After dropping their luggage upstairs, they were summoned for a group meal.

The dining hall featured a centralized serving area surrounded by half a dozen round tables for the players and staff. As expected, the tables split along club lines, generally speaking. The Valencia guys sat at one table. The Barcelona guys sat at another. The Real Madrid and Liverpool guys sat at yet another. The coaching staff sat by themselves and left well enough alone. And as for everyone else? Well, they distributed themselves with whomever they were most friendly or they sat at the 'catch-all’ tables, open and welcome to any and everyone. It was a gleeful scene, with everyone chatting happily and enjoying a calm evening before it was time to work. Except for Pepe, of course. Pepe wandered around the room from table to table, boisterously demanding a sample from each person’s plate. There would be no taming him when there was a chance to play the part of the merrymaker.

Silva and Villa arrived for the meal together, as was customary by this point. No one so much as batted an eye when the two strolled into the hall together, neither speaking but both content and at ease. They made a beeline for their club teammates, Villa greeting them with a smirk and Silva with a wave. There were more of the Valencia guys around now, making the whole thing seem like an extended sleepover or something. Silva had been especially pleased to have Mata make the call ups, though he naturally gravitated toward Raúl.

Even after a year and a half, Silva still felt a sense of obligation to protect his fellow werewolf. It wasn’t that he’d ever had real cause to fret over him, Raúl might be a bit dense sometimes, but he took these matters seriously and if anything, their friendship had reignited and deepened over the year˚. It was nice to be close to Chori again, and truth be told, it felt nice to have someone to share his burden with. He had Villa, of course. He’d always have Villa. But Villa was a human, and try as he might Villa would never truly understand what it was like to live like that. And Silva never wanted Villa to have to find out. He’d never be able to handle the guilt otherwise.

Speaking of guilt… Silva felt a pang of it just then.

One notable absence from their club reunion was Joaquín. After the night in Las Palmas, Joaquín never got called up again. Some attributed his exclusion to some off the cuff remarks he’d made about coaching decisions, but Silva couldn’t help but suspect that it all had more to do with the fact that Joaquín had let Raúl wander off to get mauled in the night. Perhaps his exclusion was a twisted form of punishment for his poor babysitting skills. Joaquín had been a wreck, just weighed down by the guilt of having nearly let Chori get killed. It took more patience than anyone knew Villa possessed to bring him back to reality again. But by then the damage had been done. Unfair as it may have been, life marched on and the team pressed ahead.

Across the room, the Barcelona collective staked claim to their own table. It wasn’t necessarily an intentional thing, it was more than they were all close and comfortable with each other. That same familiar bond shared between Silva and Chori was on full display with them, most noticeably between Cesc and newcomer Gerard Piqué. After scoring in his debut, Gerard had made quite the impact with the team, and with Cesc as his main cheerleader he seemed right at home amongst them.

Silva glanced over at them, talking loudly and rapidly, Cesc fluttering around the group with his fork, helping himself to whatever he wanted while the other men laughed. It was nice, watching others having fun. He was about to elbow Chori, to say something quiet but sharp about his observations, when he noticed Chori’s attention was elsewhere. He was staring right at the Madrid and Liverpool table.

Sergio and Fernando were practically undressing each other with their eyes, not speaking so much as they were staring longingly at each other. Across from them, Xabi and Iker seemed deep in some sort of world altering conversation. Xabi looked thoughtful, Iker looked almost confused, and beside them sat Arbeloa, chewing intently on his food, eyes darting between them, clearly not paying attention. Silva side-eyed Raúl, wondering what the hell he was looking at over there, stealthily tracing the man’s gaze right to Arbeloa’s lips. Silva blinked, unsure what to make of that before deciding he must have been mistaken.

Then, as if on cue, Arbeloa looked up from his plate, made direct eye contact with Chori and just... smiled.

Silva started to choke.

“Hey, you okay?” Villa said, quickly offering a glass of water. Juan rose to his feet, crossing over to gently massage Silva’s back as he sputtered and coughed.

“I’m fine!” He wheezed, blushing once he realized all eyes were now on him. The room was deadly silent. It was completely embarrassing. He took the glass of water and waved a hand to dismiss them all. Once the conversations resumed, he dared look back at Raúl, who was definitely making eyes at Álvaro across the way. Oh no. Oh no, no.

“Hey,” Villa hissed, nudging him in the ribs. “What’s up? You’re acting weird.”

Silva bit his lip, leaning in closer to Villa. “It’s nothing, just…”

“Just what?”

He glanced at Raúl again, then sighed softly. “I’ll tell you later. Promise.”

Villa gave him one of those looks, but said nothing. Instead he reached over and thumbed Silva’s cheek, then settled back in his seat.

“Listen up, everybody!” A voice cut through the noise, loud and insistent and so energetic it was almost painful. It was Cesc. “Hey everyone, shut up! I want to make a toast!”

Several of them groaned, a few muttered profanities, and more still called out in approval as Cesc stood up on his chair, water goblet raised high. Dutifully, the rest of them fell into line and raised their glasses too.

“First, we should toast for good health for us all. Let’s all be healthy and well for the road ahead of us.” There were murmurs of approval at this, even if Cesc’s enthusiasm was a bit over the top. “And then we should drink for our future happiness. May all of our dreams come true!”

“And may we never again be defeated!” Pepe called out and the others chuckled as they started to drink.

“No, stop! I’m not done!” Cesc yelped, pouting in the way only Cesc could. “I have one more toast to make. To our captain!”

The eye rolling was practically audible. Sergio let out a massive sigh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Oh no. Cesc…” Iker started to protest, a look of sheer panic in his eyes. Cesc apparently didn’t hear him.

“To Iker! We could not have come this far without you! Iker, you are our rock! You are our anchor! No, wait, you are like the guiding light of a lighthouse, lighting the path to victory! You’re like our North Star! Or like… the constellation in the southern hemisphere that sailors used. It’s on a bunch of flags, I think. We should look for it next week, that’d be pretty neat. I’d like to see it. Anyways, you’re like that, and you are amazing. You’re such a good friend to us all, and you’re just a nice person, even though you’re sometimes a jerk. It comes from a place of love and we all get that and we love you, Iker! We love you so much!” The young Catalan looked so sincere as he slathered the obviously embarrassed Iker with praise, Silva wasn’t sure if it was happening in earnest or if Cesc was pulling some kind of prank. Iker was pink, from his neck to the tips of his ears and his eyes were wide with horror. Cesc meanwhile was laughing brightly, without a single hint of malice in his smile. At each of their respective tables, the occupants seemed poised to burst out into riotous laughter. Not to be outdone, the Valencia guys erupted first.

“What the fuck, Fàbregas!” Villa cackled. “Have you been drinking? Are you drunk?” The rest of the men howled in glee.

Cesc’s brows furrowed and he somehow contorted his face into the most innocent expression imaginable. “What? No! Of course not! I was just— ”

“Look at Iker’s face!” Xabi cried out, laughing in spite of himself. Yes, even Xabi partook in the public mockery. “He’s the color of our kits!” The room erupted in sobs of laughter. Iker slowly buried his face in his hands like he wanted to melt into the floor.

“Nice one, Cesc! You got him good!” Gerard trilled, slapping his friend on the back as the uproar began to simmer.

Cesc kept up his smile, but Silva was almost sure he saw a dash of anguish in his eyes as he watched him settle back into his seat, eyes falling to Iker’s form, slumped on the table across the room. “Heh. Yeah. Totally.”

Silva frowned slightly and it all started to make sense. It hadn’t been a joke at all. Cesc had meant every word he’d said, he'd just used ' _we_ ' instead of ' _I_ '.  Cesc had it bad for Iker.  Looking back, it all made sense to Silva.  For as long as he'd known the two of them, he'd been vaguely aware of the odd dynamic they shared.  Cesc seemed to utterly adore the keeper, while Iker always indulged him, alternating between being protective of him and playing just a bit too rough.  It was a fine line, a confusing line, and frankly Silva wasn't sure he could speculate as to Iker's feelings for the younger man.  Maybe he reciprocated.  Sometimes it seemed that way.  But just as often, Iker seemed to be at his wit's end with Cesc, frustrated, angry, annoyed.  It must be chaotic for Cesc, to be pulled between the extremes by the person he loved.

Silva's heart ached for Cesc. It ached so badly. Without even thinking about it, he reached under the table and put his hand on Villa’s knee. Villa turned to face him quickly and the two shared a short little smile and the heartache dissolved back into pure love, or something palpable enough that he almost worried that someone else might pick up on it.

And as he finally broke from Villa’s gaze, he stole a peek at the Real-Liverpool table. Sergio was shaking Iker’s shoulders, loudly teasing him over the toast. Fernando and Xabi were both attempting to stifle their laughter. And Álvaro Arbeloa was taking full advantage of the lack of scrutiny to make eyes right back at Raúl Albiol.

Silva shook his head and gave Villa's knee a squeeze. Whatever was going on between Chori and Arbeloa, he decided he didn't want to know the details. 


	11. Chapter Ten

Gerard and Cesc were the first ones to leave the dining room, at Cesc’s insistence. After the debacle that was his toast, he was eager to get as far away from the rest of the team as possible. The sooner he was gone, the sooner they’d forget the whole ordeal and the sooner he could overcome the humiliation. It wasn’t like he couldn’t take a bit of embarrassment. He liked attention, good or bad, and he thrived when the crowd was on his side. But he’d gotten the distinct impression that the guys weren’t laughing with him this time, and more troubling he got the impression that he’d managed to upset Iker, too. And for that reason alone, he felt like an utter failure. 

When he’d looked to Iker afterward, to offer up a friendly smile of apology, he’d been met with a look of mortification. Iker, blushing bright red, getting teased and laughed at in front of everybody. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered anyone, but for whatever reason, Cesc felt like he’d done something wrong, and it was eating at him from the inside out. 

And why was that? He didn’t care to think about it too much, otherwise he’d risk having to go down the long trail of introspection and he didn’t have the energy or the time for that. Long story short? He kind of maybe had a thing for Iker. And that thing was a massive fucking crush. He’d had those feelings for Iker for as long as he could remember, probably from the very first time they’d met, and their years spent playing together did very little in the way to dissuade his attachment. If anything, his feelings had only intensified over time and across the distance, and while he’d meant everything in his speech in general, he’d actually been speaking from the heart to Iker. It was as close to a confession as he’d ever get.  

Other than telling Geri, anyway.  He'd told Gerard about his infatuation a long time ago.  It hadn't gone well.  He'd gotten the distinct impression that his best friend thought he was insane for it, so he stopped bringing it up.  Now, a couple of years down the line, they were on the national team together and Cesc had all the more reason to never mention his crush and pretend like it never happened.  On the bright side, that strategy seemed to have worked.  Everything he'd said at dinner had been taken as a big joke.  Cesc had never been so relieved in his life.

“I still can’t get over that toast,” Gerard said as the headed for the elevators. He hadn’t stopped smiling since he’d initially dared Cesc to lead the team in a toast. “No one expected you to bust that shit out. Did you see his face? Fuck, it was classic!” 

Cesc scrunched his nose, repeatedly pressing the call button. “It really wasn’t that funny.” 

“Whatever, Cesc. Like you didn’t have it all planned out.” 

“I really didn’t.” He protested, arms crossed over his chest. “I’m not that clever.” 

“Well, you’re more clever than you look.” Gerard smirked, fluffing the smaller man’s hair. Cesc glared for that, though in spite of his efforts he just managed to come across looking like a peeved little kitten. The elevator doors opened ahead of them and he strode in. “Come on. I’m tired as hell. Let’s go play some cards and go to bed.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Cesc shrugged defeatedly and stepped in behind Gerard. He looked up as the elevator doors slowly began to close, catching sight of Sergio and Iker rounding the corner toward them. Just as the doors slid shut, Iker and Cesc locked eyes, and before he could stop himself, Cesc found his heart racing and found himself grinning from ear to ear. 

 

— 

 

Iker stopped in his tracks, eyes fixed ahead as Sergio yammered on incessantly at his side, oblivious to the scene before him. His pulse skipped, just for a beat or two and before he could think he was smiling stupidly, lopsided and over the moon as their eyes met. Cesc, oh, Cesc. Annoying, obnoxious, adorable, lovable Cesc. How could one man elicit such conflicting emotions from him? His mind went on a roller coaster whenever he thought about him, up and down and all around in loops. Cesc had somehow managed to be both the object of Iker’s most sordid fantasies and the person he was most likely to lose his temper with. He brought out the darkest, most moving emotions he possessed. It was at once infuriating and wildly exciting. But beyond that, it was also kind of embarrassing. After all, it was  _Cesc_. 

The young Catalan had no clue what he’d ignited in the dining hall. For months,  _years_  even, Iker had dealt with his infatuation quietly. He never indulged it, never let on that he felt anything for Cesc besides respect and friendship. Sure, he’d ask after him from time to time, and they’d sometimes send text messages, and once or twice over the years they’d had a brief phone call, but Iker really and truly worked hard to keep a lid on his emotions. And somehow, in the course of two minutes in the banquet room of some luxury hotel in Baku, Cesc had unwittingly torn the lid off the Pandora’s box that was Iker’s heart. 

Iker Casillas had a crush. And he was going to do absolutely nothing about it. He’d be content to admire Cesc from afar. He’d learn to accept it, just as he had for years. It would be alright. Besides, looking as Cesc was half the fun of having feelings for him. Cesc was damn sexy, even if he  _direly_  needed a haircut. 

Iker’s smile took on a wolfish glint, and at that precise moment Sergio caught on that Iker was off. “Hello? Earth to Iker!” He waved a hand in front of Iker’s face, scowling at being ignored. “Are you even listening to a word I’m saying?” 

The keeper snapped back to reality as the elevator doors closed a few feet ahead of them. Iker turned to look at Sergio, fixing him with an unimpressed glare. “Of course. You were waxing poetic about Torres’ backside. Again.” 

Sergio let out a whoop of a laugh and he threw his arms around Iker’s shoulders. “Aw, Iker! I  _knew_  you paid attention to me!” 

“Somebody has to keep an eye on you, Sese,” Iker mumbled, though he made no attempts at escape as he pushed the call button for them. “You need constant supervision, otherwise we’re all doomed.” 

“Somebody  _else_  could always babysit me.” Sergio’s voice was simply dripping with innuendo.  It was plain as day what he was getting at.

Iker just shook his head and looked unimpressed. “You’re not rooming with Nando, Sergio.” 

“But why? Iker! We’ll behave! I promise it! I swear!” 

“You two distract each other too much. You won’t get any sleep.” 

“But we don’t need to sleep tonight! It’s just a practice day tomorrow! Iker! Come on! Please? Please swap with Nando? You like Xabi! You could totally room with Xabi! It’s just for the night! Please, Iker?” Sergio was practically giving Iker puppy dog eyes. 

“Try not to sound so desperate, Ramos. It isn’t very becoming.” 

Both Iker and Sergio turned around quickly to see that Villa had somehow managed to walk up behind them without either of them noticing. There was probably a conclusion to be drawn from that, but neither was willing to indulge it. Instead they both gave the intruder menacing looks. Villa just continued on, leaning against the wall like their displeasure meant nothing. 

“Someone’s in a good mood.” Iker said flatly, looking Villa up and down. The Asturian managed to almost look like he wasn’t sneering for half a second. 

“I’m in a fantastic mood, thanks.” Villa tilted his head to look at Sergio. “This one looks miserable, though. What’d you do to him, Casillas? Kick his dog?” 

“No. That’s just how his face looks.” 

“Hey!” Sergio looked offended. 

Iker shrugged mildly. 

Villa grinned and relaxed against the wall. “Hey, before I forget, I wanted to congratulate you on the superlatives, Iker.” 

The keeper blanched a little, a lump forming in his chest. “You mean the speech—?” 

“You mean Cesc’s little coming out party?” Sergio interjected, a fiendish look on his face. 

“What else could I mean?” Villa had a conspiratorial look in his eyes as he leaned toward Sergio. 

Sergio cackled, “He was practically begging to suck your cock, Iker!” 

Iker’s eyes went huge and he looked like he might punch the shit out of both of them as they snickered. “Would you two knock it off? You know Cesc. He was just being an idiot. He didn’t mean anything by it.” 

“Keep telling yourself that, Iker. Between the three of us, that kid’s been crazy for you since day fucking one.” Villa said, smirking as he entered the elevator. Sergio sauntered in behind him with a carefree shrug, as if Villa’s little statement wasn’t some kind of earth shattering bombshell. Iker stood there slack-jawed, like he’d just been hit by a bus. He stood there so long he very nearly missed the elevator and had to scramble to make it in before the doors closed on him. 

Sergio and Villa exchanged a quick look as Iker regained his senses and put on his most captainy face. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about but that’s enough out of both of you. I don’t want to hear another word about the toast or about Cesc or about anyone sucking my cock. Got it?” 

Villa’s lips curved into a smug smile. “Aye aye, captain.” 

“But Iker—” 

“Not another  _word_ , Sergio.” 

The defender sighed loudly, rolling his eyes at Villa as he muttered under his breath. “Aye aye, captain.” 

“Good.” Iker nodded approvingly, eying them both with what he hoped was a convincing expression of authority. Inwardly he was kind of on the verge of freaking out. They weren’t being serious, of course. Cesc didn’t have any interest in him, not like that. He was just overly enthusiastic and far too sincere for his own good. That didn’t mean he felt anything besides respect and admiration for Iker, and Iker knew better than to think as much was even possible. But God help him, he wanted so much to believe. 

 

— 

 

Silva stayed behind in the dining room to socialize while Villa went ahead back to their room. Despite his quiet reputation, he really thrived in smaller social environments, adding to the proceedings with sly observations and surprisingly cutting remarks. The guys always thought he was a riot and he was always pleased when his jokes landed properly. It did wonders for his self-esteem. 

As the dinner wound down, he waved goodnight to the fellas and took his time strolling toward the elevators. 

“Hey,” a very familiar voice snatched Silva’s attention as he entered the hall. He froze, shoulders slightly hunched as he turned to face Raúl.  His teammate was looming over him, dark eyes twinkling with mischief or regret or some odd mixture of the two contrary emotions. The look seemed out of place on his face, and for whatever reason, Silva's stomach instantly lurched in anticipation. 

“Hey, yourself,” Silva answered, giving his friend the most benign smile he could muster. He wasn’t exactly sure why Raúl was following him, it wasn’t like they didn’t see enough of each other already. It had him on edge, for whatever reason. Something just seemed off. “What’s up?” 

Raúl didn’t seem bothered by Silva’s lack of enthusiasm, stepping closer to his friend, voice dropping low as he spoke. “Listen, I know this isn’t the best time or place, but I really need to talk to you. It’s important.” 

The Canarian raised an eyebrow, glancing over his shoulder warily. There was really only one thing Raúl would want to talk about in so grave a tone, and if he was willing to risk speaking about it in the open then it had to be a serious matter. “And you’re sure this can’t wait until later?” 

“If it could wait, I’d wait,” the Valencian said, looking back over his shoulder too. “It’s about Álvaro.” 

Silva frowned, not understanding. “What? Arbeloa? What about him?” 

“He knows, David.” 

Silva's blood went cold. Fear flashed in his brown eyes and his complexion seemed to go pale. “What do you mean  _he knows_?” 

“I mean he knows the truth. He figured it out.” Raúl still spoke in a quiet voice, but panic was beginning to seep in. There was no mistaking the worry in his eyes as he stared at Silva, imploring him to somehow fix it. 

“Did you tell him?” 

“No, I didn’t tell him—” 

“Oh my  _god_. You told him, Raúl. Don’t lie to me.” Silva’s voice grew louder then, a sharp, warning snarl. It was so unexpected even Albiol was startled by it. Luckily no one else was within earshot to hear the uncharacteristic growling. 

“I had to tell him,” Raúl answered quickly, softly, lowering his eyes. “He would have figured it out anyway.” 

Silva shook his head, looking up at the ceiling like he might get some sort of guidance there. He muttered something quiet, something so soft that it had to be a prayer, before looking back to Albiol. His expression was as hard as Albiol had ever seen it and he found it highly distressing. “What was the first thing I made you promise me? When we got back to Valencia, what did you promise me?” 

“That I’d never tell a soul.” Raúl whispered, looking like a scolded child. The height disparity between them only emphasized the peculiarity of his body language. 

“Exactly. But now Arbeloa knows.” 

“I had to tell him, David.” Raúl protested firmly, lips pressed together in a thin line. 

“That was the one specific thing you weren’t supposed to do. You can’t just go around telling people.” Albiol wasn’t sure if Silva sounded more disappointed or scared. “It’s dangerous.” 

“It’s Álvaro. He’s not dangerous.” He was absolutely adamant on this point, staring back at Silva now, demanding his friend's full attention. “We can trust him.” 

“I barely even know him.” 

“Well, I do. And I trust him. Besides, you told Villa. It’s only fair.” 

That earned a scoff from Silva. This was nothing like his situation with Villa. For one thing, he and Villa were physically intimate and had been for months before he’d finally confided his most precious secret to him. And for another, he and Villa were in lo— 

Oh.  _Oh._

It dawned on Silva then that perhaps their situations weren’t so very different after all. His cheeks went slightly red and he fussed with his bangs to mask his sudden case of shyness. He’d known Raúl for years, longer than just about anybody he still hung around with and it was awkward to think about his friend’s romantic exploits. It was like thinking about his brother having sex. And with Álvaro Arbeloa of all people? That was just plain weird. But who was he to judge, right? 

“It’s like that?” He asked in a hushed voice, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

Raúl nodded, glad that he didn’t have to spell it out any more clearly. These conversations were always awkward as it was. The last thing he needed was to have to specifically detail the nature of his relationship with Álvaro just so shy little Silva would get his drift. “It’s like that. I just couldn’t keep it from him any longer.” 

Silva bit his lip and nodded. He understood. He’d reached that point with Villa long ago, when keeping the secret would have been logistically impossible and also just too much to bear. He couldn’t hide his true nature from his lover forever. At a certain point, he’d had to take the risk and tell the truth. He couldn’t really fault Raúl for doing the same exact thing, even if the consequences could have been dire for them all. 

“How’d he take it?” He finally asked. 

The Valencian let out a short laugh, relief washing over him. “Surprisingly well, actually.  But I don't think he believed me at first.” 

The Canarian returned the laugh with a knowing smile.  No matter how uneasy he felt inside, he couldn't help but smile whenever Chori did.  “He's only human. But he’s okay now?” 

Raúl nodded, “Yeah. He’s good. And he’s not going to tell anyone, David. You don’t have to worry so much.” 

Silva didn’t have the heart to tell his friend that worrying over being found out was probably the thing he stressed about most in life. Instead, he just sighed and accepted that what was done was done. “I'm not mad at you, Chori, but seriously? You have to be really careful. What happens if things go south with you and Álvaro, huh? What happens then?” 

“He's not going to change his mind.” Not anymore than Villa would, anyway. 

Silva looked up at his friend for several long, pointed moments before giving a slight nod. He wasn't happy about the situation at all, but he decided then and there that he'd had the chance to find happiness despite his curse, so his old friend deserved a chance at the same happiness. Just because he was cursed didn't mean he had to be alone forever.

“Okay,” was all Silva said though. 

Raúl let out a quick sigh of relief, grinning as he ruffled the smaller man’s hair. “You’re the best, David. I knew you’d understand.” And with that, he trotted off toward the lobby, leaving Silva helplessly wondering if it really would be okay after all.


	12. Chapter Eleven

It had been an hour since their brief encounter at the elevator and Cesc still hadn’t come down from the thrill of Iker’s smile.  Despite Geri’s incessant pestering, he was off in his own little world, grinning to himself, sighing as he thought about Iker, thought about how it felt when Iker smiled at him. He also thought of how good it would feel in a week’s time, once they’d won the tournament, when they’d really have something to celebrate. He’d made up another toast in his head, something that would be so moving and real that Iker would understand him and know he meant every word. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d finally grow a spine and actually  _tell_  Iker how he felt, how he’d  _always_  felt about him. Unlikely, but the idea had been planted and now it was germinating in his mind, threatening to burst into full bloom.   
  
“You’re acting weird,” Gerard said, snapping Cesc out of his fantasies. He turned quickly, seeing his friend wrapped in a towel, fresh from the shower. In his daydreams, Cesc hadn’t even realized Gerard had left at all.  He felt a little bad then, having already bailed on their card game in order to indulge his fantasies about Iker's smile.  
  
“No, I’m not, I’m just thinking.” Cesc answered, pulling his comforter up to his chin. Despite it being June, the hotel room was rather chilly.   
  
Gerard gave an amused snort, feet shuffling on the carpeted floor as he crossed the room to his suitcase. “Great,” he said playfully. “What about?”   
  
For a moment, Cesc entertained the idea of lying, deflecting, saying anything else to get Geri off his case, but he knew full well that it would be useless. They’d known each other too long to truly deceive one another. So instead, he sighed and bit the bullet. “Iker.”   
  
Gerard  _groaned_. “Oh for the love of…  _Cesc_. Is  _that_  what this was all about? Your stupid little crush?”   
  
Cesc gave him a sheepish smile, peeking out from his nest of blankets. Gerard was glaring at him from across the room. “Geri, I— ”   
  
“You’re out of control,” he interjected, turning his back on Cesc as he pulled on his underwear and then his pajama pants. Cesc's lips twitched into a frown. “I thought you were over that asshole.”   
  
The midfielder pouted in protest. “Okay, no. First of all, I am  _hardly_  out of control. This is literally the first time I’ve ever done anything like this— ”   
  
“If you don’t count all the times you’ve tried to trick him into giving you piggyback rides, or all the million other times you’ve gone out of your way to get his attention.  Maybe you didn't spell it out, but you acting like a moron around him is hardly a brand new development.”   
  
“I’ve never actually told him I have feelings for him though!” That was an important distinction and Cesc felt that it ought to be recognized.   
  
Gerard sat down on his bed, leveling Cesc with an unimpressed gaze. “You don’t have feelings for him, Cesc. You have a crush. That isn’t the same thing. It’s not even remotely the same thing.”   
  
“One leads to the other,” Cesc mumbled.   
  
“Well they aren’t the same thing. And if you actually, really,  _truly_  had feelings for Iker, you would have done something about it years ago.  And badly tackling him doesn't count.  Neither does spamming his email with cat pics or not-safe-for-work gifs.  I'm talking about something _real_.  But you haven’t. Because you don’t.”   
  
Geri’s voice was sharp, scolding, and Cesc felt like he’d been knocked down a peg or two. He did raise a good point though. He’d had years to stew on his emotions, to get over his little crush and move on in life. He could have said something at any point, made a move,  _asked_  Iker out, for God’s sake. And he hadn’t. But he hadn’t gotten over Iker in that time either. If anything, Cesc was even more smitten with him now at twenty-two than he had been at eighteen.   
  
“I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him after the tournament.”   
  
“You’re such an idiot,” Gerard said flatly, reaching over to turn off the light. “I’m telling Xavi.”   
  
“No you’re not!” Cesc’s voice jumped up an octave and a half and he sat up straight, ready to intercept should Gerard make for the door.   
  
“Hell yes I am,” the defender insisted, rolling around until he was comfortable, not following through on his threat immediately. “He’ll talk some sense into you. I should’ve told him years ago, let him nip this crap in the bud.”   
  
“I never should have told you any of this!” Cesc yelped, staring at his friend’s silhouette in the dark. “You’re such a jerk!”   
  
“And you’re being completely naïve.” He retorted. “Has Iker ever even indicated that he might reciprocate? Huh? In four years has he ever done anything that might mean that he likes you too? It’s all fine and dandy if you’ve got a _secret gay crush_ on Casillas. Whatever, that’s cool,  _I guess_. But what do you think will happen when you tell him? Do you think you’ll run off together and live happily ever after? I hate to break it to you, but that’s not happening. And you know that there’s about seven million reasons  _why_  it can’t happen and it won’t happen. So stop fixating on his lame ass and move on. We’ve got a tournament to win. Don’t forget that, Cesc.”   
  
Cesc laid flat on his back then, staring up at the expansive white ceiling. What  _had_  he expected, really? Geri was right. Iker wasn’t going to take him on some grand romantic adventure. That was never in the cards for them and could never be. But that didn’t mean a guy couldn’t hold onto the fantasy. Cesc closed his eyes, breathed in and out. Okay, maybe there was no hope for a future with Iker and nothing besides his own desires fueling everything, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth a shot. Maybe he’d get rejected. Oh well. At least he’d try. A heart can’t soar if it’s wings have been clipped. Hmmm… the metaphor didn’t quite work, but regardless, Cesc was resolved. He’d tell Iker how he felt.  _He’d_  be the one to make the first move.   
  
He sat up again and kicked his feet over the side, pushing himself out of bed. He walked slowly to the bathroom, then thought better of it and went for the exit.   
  
“Where are you going?” Gerard asked, sitting up too.   
  
“I need to clear my head,” was all Cesc said before stepping out into the hallway.   
  
  
—   
  
  
Cesc just had to go. He didn’t know  _where_  he had to go, but he had to get outside, away from Geri and everyone else so he could think. He’d stood in the hallway for a minute or so, pacing around by the ice machine before he heard voices carrying down the hall and decided to book it. Darting for the stairwell, he let his feet make the decisions for him, and before he realized it, he was at the pool deck. He blinked quickly, shaking himself out of his thoughtless daze, eyes falling to the crystal blue water of the pool and the man leisurely swimming toward him.   
  
“Hey,” Fernando called, smile obscured by the water lapping around his chin as he swam up to the ledge.   
  
“Hey,” Cesc called back, giving an awkward little wave. The hem of his pajama pants was getting wet from the puddles on the deck.   
  
Fernando hoisted himself part of the way out of the pool, resting his chin on his forearms as he let his legs float behind him. He spoke teasingly, voice gentle. “You’re hardly dressed for swimming, Cesc. Don’t tell me you’re going to skinny dip.”   
  
The Catalan laughed. “Huh? No, no. I just… needed some space. To think. Or something.” He paused. “I didn’t think anyone would be here so late.”   
  
“I was just about to get out,” Fernando said.   
  
“You don’t have to leave on my account,” Cesc said.   
  
The older man chuckled, flipping gracefully onto his back in a smooth motion. “Don’t worry. I’m not.” He floated there a moment, water sliding over his lean form as Cesc watched him intently. There was a quiet, easy peace between them, neither speaking for the moment. It was nice, unforced, to just stay there and silently accept and enjoy the other’s presence. Fernando paddled slowly through the water, and after a minute spent watching him, Cesc dropped down to roll up his pant legs over his knees and dip his feet into the pool. When Fernando noticed that, he smiled and made his way back over to the ledge and to Cesc.   
  
“What’s the matter?” He said, voice low and raspy from the chlorine. “And don’t say it’s nothing. You'd have to be blind not to see that you’re upset.”   
  
Cesc blinked a few times, watching the waves swirl around his ankles. He didn’t want to talk about anything, not to Fernando, not to anybody. Nothing  _against_  Torres, but, well… they weren’t close like that. Not the way he was close to Geri. And Geri, _his best friend in the whole world_ , had just royally shat on his parade. He fully expected Fernando would do the same…except for the fact that Fernando Torres might have been the single most decent human being Cesc had ever met. He was competitive on the pitch sure, but he was also a gentleman. Like, a real and true gentleman.  Fernando was nice, empathetic.  He wouldn’t’ be an asshole. Not the way his own bestie had.   
  
“I guess I could use a pep talk or something,” Cesc mumbled at last, turning to look at Nando.   
  
“What kind of pep talk? Are you nervous for the tournament?” Fernando asked.   
  
He shook his head. “No, no. I guess maybe like… a general pep talk. One to apply to my whole entire life.”   
  
“That’s a tall order,” the older man said, swimming over to the ladder to climb out of the pool. Cesc stayed sitting where he was as Fernando walked over to fetch a towel to dry off. “Don’t tell me you’re having a crisis of self-confidence, Cesc.”   
  
“I’m not, I just…” He trailed off.   
  
Fernando sat down beside Cesc, letting his feet dangle into the water as well. “Don’t. Whatever is bugging you, don’t even indulge it. You’re better than the voices telling you you aren’t good enough. I know it, and I know  _you_  know it. So just block it out and do what you’ve got to do.” He smiled, dimples showing. “Besides, you’re young, talented, and not bad to look at. You keep dancing to your own drum and the whole planet will fall at your feet. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a dirty liar and they’re probably green with envy.”   
  
Cesc watched Fernando with a half smile, slowly stretching into a full out grin. Leave it to good ol’ Fernando to pump up his confidence again. But he did make a good point. Cesc had never lacked self-confidence the way he sometimes lacked self-awareness. He’d never have had the nerve to leave for London at such a young age if he didn’t have faith in himself as a footballer and as a person. Gerard’s words hurt, they’d cut him down, Julius Caesar style, and it all still stung. He could get past it though, forget Gerard’s pessimism, and still take a chance at love. There was no reason he couldn’t succeed. He was Cesc Fàbregas for crying out loud. He could do absolutely anything!   
  
“Speaking of green,” Nando said, standing up. “I desperately need to wash my hair otherwise I’m going to look like a troll doll tomorrow. Chlorine and bleach. Trust me, it’s a hideous combination.”   
  
The younger man laughed, running his hands through his own hair then as he watched Fernando head for the door. “Hey, Nando?”   
  
He looked back, brows arched inquisitively. “Yes?”   
  
“Thanks a lot,” Cesc said, as earnest as he’d been when giving his toast to Iker. “You’re the best.”   
  
Fernando just shook his head, calling back as he left, “Get some sleep, Cesc. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, kicking his feet in the water, not ready to leave quite yet. He stared into the chlorine blue of the water, watched at the ripples and patterns it made as it lapped against the walls of the pool and swirled up his calves and he knew what he needed to do.   
  
Mind made up at last, Cesc stood, reached for a spare towel, and headed back to the stairwell.


	13. Chapter Twelve

Raúl couldn’t shake Silva’s question from his head, even as he sat in the hotel lobby waiting for Álvaro to join him.  _What happens if things go south with you and Álvaro, huh?_  He chewed on his cuticles as he sat there waiting, wondering what  _would_  happen if suddenly Álvaro changed his mind or something. He’d never entertained the thought before, not seriously anyway, and to be confronted with it suddenly really threw him for a loop. What if they split up? What then? And was there really even a them  _to_  split up? What the hell were they anyways? Did a long term sexual liaison actually constitute a relationship? He'd always just sort of assumed they were  _together_ , but they'd never actually talked about it. Maybe they weren't together and he'd made some sort of mistake that way. Maybe all he was to Álvaro was a warm body to sleep with. Maybe that's all Álvaro meant to him. Except that wasn't true and he knew it, but they'd never actually officially acknowledged what they were to each other, besides being friends with some very exclusive, very erotic benefits. Now Raúl was completely turned around, trapped in his own head, having tuned the rest of the world out.   
  
“Yo, space cadet. Raúl. Hey? You awake there, buddy?”   
  
He literally shook his head as he came back to reality, Álvaro standing right in front of him with a teasing smirk tugging at his lips. Raúl couldn’t help but grin back at him. Álvaro looked good, smartly dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. He looked like a tourist instead of a footballer, and Raúl regretted not heading upstairs to change into something more comfortable. But it was a little late now, and besides, he didn’t want to keep Álvaro waiting while he sorted through his luggage to find something other than his track suit to wear. So he just smiled and hoped it wasn’t  _too_  obvious just how smitten he was. He wanted to keep a bit of dignity if he could. “Hey.”   
  
“Hey,” the older man snickered. “You were really zoned out there. I’ve been calling out to you for like thirty seconds now.”   
  
“Oh yeah?” Raúl said, laughing softly, running his hands through his hair. “Sorry. I was just… you know.”   
  
“Thinking?” Álvaro asked, raising an eyebrow.   
  
“Yeah,” he answered, getting out of the plush, floral print lounge chair. The lobby was scarcely populated, despite being relatively full with the visiting Spanish team and their entourage in tow. It wasn’t too late in the evening, but aside from the desk staff and a few random guests milling around, the two Spaniards were the only ones in the lobby. Raúl wasn’t ready to take full advantage of their relative privacy, though. He still felt nervous when it came to showing any outward signs of affection.   
  
For his part Álvaro was on the same wavelength. In public, they were purely platonic. For the most part. Sure, they occasionally stole glances with each other, but they hardly made a spectacle of themselves the way Torres and Ramos did. They were discrete. When they were in public, at least.   
  
Which was why they kept a fair amount of distance between them as they walked toward the grand glass doors and out into the warm June evening. It was a perfect night for a stroll. Baku was nothing if not inviting, the old cobblestone streets beckoning visitors to explore and become lost in the maze of old stone buildings. The moon glowed, tranquil and huge in the sky, casting the entire city in a lovely silver sheen, and the stars burned bright as embers, dotting the pitch black sky. It was picturesque, lovely, the ideal setting for a romantic walk into town. Except the two men were hardly ones for flowers and romance. Or at least, neither had given into that side of themselves up to that point.   
  
They liked to take walks together though and had made a habit of it whenever they were at call-ups to get out an explore their surroundings. Generally they’d play catch up during these excursions, discussing each other’s lives before moving on to pop culture and other trivial nonsense. They saved the intimate stuff for later, when they could be alone. Or, when they weren’t assigned as each other’s roommates, they’d stay up texting each other into the early hours of the morning, sharing the more personal details that way. But as they strolled the peaceful streets of Baku, neither one spoke for the longest time, though both of them were clearly on edge.   
  
Álvaro gave Raúl a curious glance as they walked in silence before finally asking, “So. Are you going to tell me what you were thinking about?”   
  
Raúl looked down at his feet and took a deep breath. “Maybe.”   
  
Álvaro sighed. “I hate it when you do that. Come on, Raúl. Either tell me or don’t. I hate playing the maybe game.”   
  
“I’m sorry, I just… I have a lot on my mind.”   
  
“Is it the tournament?”   
  
He shook his head. “No, it’s not that. It’s… I talked to Silva.”   
  
“Oh?” Álvaro slowed his steps a little, causing Raúl to do the same. “What about?”   
  
“You know what about.”   
  
Truthfully, Álvaro  _didn’t_  know what about. He had an inkling as to the nature of their conversation, but there were a few secrets between Raúl and his best friend that hadn’t been aired, as far as he knew, and the relationship between the two defenders was at the core of them all. So either Raúl had come out to Silva or he’d told Silva that he’d told Álvaro or maybe he’d told him both. Álvaro swallowed hard. “What’d he say?”   
  
“He was mad.” Raúl said plainly, looking up at the sky, not noticing the bright waxing moon on the horizon. “And he wanted to know what’s going to happen when we break up.”   
  
“Excuse me?” Álvaro sounded incredulous, coming to a full stop there on the sidewalk. “He  _what_?”   
  
The younger man let out a long breath. “He wants to know what’ll happen when we break up, Álvaro.”   
  
“Is that how he said it? Just like that?”   
  
“I might be paraphrasing a little—”   
  
“He thinks we’re going to break up?”   
  
“Well, I guess he’s concerned that like—”   
  
“He didn’t even know we were together until today and already he’s decided we’re breaking up.”   
  
“That’s not what he meant, Arbie. He’s just—”   
  
Álvaro looked up at Raúl, silencing him with his eyes. “I get it, okay. He’s worried you’re going to get hurt.”   
  
Raúl nodded, but said nothing.   
  
“Are you worried you’re going to get hurt?” The older man asked.   
  
Raúl shook his head. “It never really occurred to me until he mentioned it.”   
  
“Well there you go.” Álvaro started walking again and Raúl scrambled a little to keep up. “You know me better than he does, and you know  _us_  better than he does.”   
  
“That’s true,” Raúl said, falling into step beside him.   
  
“And besides,” he said. “It’s not as if we’re officially dating or something. We can’t break up unless we’re actually together, you know.”   
  
The Valencian could feel his heart sink straight into the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t help it either when his face crumbled, just for a second. “Yeah,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “It’s not like we’re… an actual thing.”   
  
“Exactly,” Álvaro nodded, catching Raúl’s eyes just then. He paused, his own haughty expression faltering too, only for a moment. “We’re fooling around. We fuck. It’s not complicated. We're just… a thing. It doesn’t mean I’m in love with you or something.”   
  
It felt like a knife in his chest, even though he knew to expect something like that. No matter what he said or what they did together, he knew better than to expect some outpouring of love and warm, fuzzy words from Álvaro. That didn’t mean he wasn’t hurt though. He stood his ground, didn’t move another foot. “Yeah, right. It’s not like you’re in love with me, Álvaro. It’s not like that at all.”   
  
The older man had just about regained his composure, only to find himself shaken yet again. He looked Raúl up and down once, then again, and Raúl could see that he was nervous. Álvaro opened his mouth, like he was going to say something biting or sly, but Raúl beat him to it, speaking in a sharp, aching whisper. “Listen, it’s fine. It’s not a big deal. What Silva said doesn’t matter. It doesn’t change anything. We can do whatever we want. We’re adults. We can have sex without there being feelings involved.”   
  
Álvaro stood there quietly, like a scolded puppy. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, studying Raúl with his large dark eyes. Finally, he asked uncertainly, “Are you sure about that, Chori?” Raúl said nothing. Álvaro took that as his cue to continue. “Because I don’t think we can.”   
  
“You don’t think we can what?”   
  
“I don’t think we can have sex.” Álvaro coughed then. Raúl’s eyes went wide. He looked like he might pass out. “Not without there being feelings involved.”   
  
Raúl just about choked on his own tongue. “You almost gave me a heart attack, you ass!” Álvaro’s lips twitched into a sly smile. Raúl wasn’t sure if he wanted to strangle him or kiss him. “So does this mean you were lying?”   
  
“Lying about what?” Álvaro asked, looking rather coy. Raúl couldn’t help but note the way the moonlight reflected in Álvaro’s eyes, giving them a silvery sort of tinge. It gave Raúl chills, and not the bad kind either.   
  
“About loving me.” He took a step closer to Álvaro, an expectant look in his eyes.   
  
Álvaro felt himself melting, just a little, as Raúl came closer to him. He was so warm, so familiar. He felt like such a fool, such an idiot giving into him like that. “Shut up, Chori,” he protested softly, a quiet surrender. “You know I love you.”   
  
“Yeah,” Raúl said, leaning in, pausing just before their lips could meet. “But I wanted to hear you say it.”   
  
“You’re such a needy little—” Álvaro’s words fell away, dissipating into the younger man’s kiss. He moaned softly and was rewarded with a smug snicker from Raúl when they finally broke apart. “Dammit, Chori.”   
  
“This doesn’t have to change anything.” Raúl said as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.   
  
Álvaro sighed, shaking his head. “I swear to God we’ve had this conversation before.”   
  
“We probably have.”   
  
“So stop overthinking it, Raúl. How long have we been together?”   
  
Raúl shrugged. “I don’t know. Like, a year?”   
  
“Like a year. And we’ve been fine, haven’t we? I mean,  _I_  thought we were fine. I thought we got each other.” The older man took a step back, casting around at their surroundings. In the pale light of the moon, the stoney old buildings looked almost like sandcastles. “I thought you got me.”   
  
“I do,” he said firmly. “I mean, I think I do.”   
  
Álvaro frowned. “So stop thinking about what  _might_  happen and let’s just enjoy being together. What we have works, doesn’t it? Can we please not ruin it by worrying about what Silva says? Please, Chori?” He reached for Raúl’s hand, held it tight, then brought it quickly to his lips for a brief, tender kiss, pleading with his eyes, letting them bore right through to Raúl’s soul.   
  
Chori felt himself blush, just a little, but he pressed on. “All right, but we  _are_  together, right? Like  _officially_?”   
  
Álvaro sighed, but Raúl could plainly see that he was pleased with himself. “Don’t be such an airhead.”   
  
“That’s not an answer, Tostadas.”   
  
The older man rolled his eyes, trying to play it cool. Raúl wasn’t at all fooled. “Well,  _I guess_. But only because you decided to tell Silva.”   
  
Raúl was positively beaming, snaking both of his arms around Álvaro’s waist as he leaned in to kiss his neck, his aversion to public displays of affection be damned.  “I love you. I do. You know I do.”   
  
“Yes, I know,” he said, smiling as he let himself be kissed. “Now don’t get all soft on me, Albiol. This doesn’t change anything.”   
  
“I know,” Raúl promised, pulling back at last to look over his  _boyfriend_. “It just means I'm  _officially_  off the market. That's all.”   
  
Álvaro snorted and considered reminding him that he’d been off the market since the previous June but decided not to, slinging an arm around his waist instead as they walked through the peaceful streets and back toward the hotel. “Don't let it go to your head, Raúlito. I know I’m a catch.”   
  
“Uh-huh. Now, I expect your Facebook relationship status to be updated by tomorrow morning.”   
  
The older man laughed out loud and gave Raúl a squeeze. “You first.”   
  
Raúl laughed too, and they walked back to the hotel side by side, enjoying the heat of each other’s presence. Above them, the moon shone bright, like a diamond in the expansive black of the night.


	14. Chapter Thirteen

There was something about his conversation with Raúl that left Silva feeling unsettled. He couldn’t quite identify what it was, other than naturally being uneasy with anyone knowing their secret. He could get over that, probably, given enough time, so it wasn’t that. It was Raúl’s choice of confidantes which troubled him. It was Arbeloa himself. Silva didn’t know him, had hardly spent any time with him, and by extension, he didn’t fully trust him. He wasn’t quite sure _how_ he and Raúl had gotten close, right under his nose too. Of course he didn’t care to know the details of Chori’s sex life, but he’d expected a hint or something at least. They were friends, weren’t they? And what’s more, they were bound by a curse. That ought to count for something.  
  
Silva was mulling it all over in his head, pulling off his shoes on the hotel bed when Villa breezed in.  
  
“Hey!” The older man called, breathless and laughing a little.  
  
Silva looked up, giving a curt nod. “Hey.” He wasn’t going to ask where Villa had been. He knew full well he’d get the story in due time.  
  
“You just missed the funniest shit,” Villa grinned, kicking his shoes off carelessly as he flopped down beside Silva, expanding like a cat across the mattress.   
  
“Oh?” Silva asked, quirking a brow at his lover.  
  
“Oh yeah,” Villa said, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “So I was in the elevator with Casillas and Ramos, and we’re a couple floors away when the elevator stops. And guess who walks in.”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Guess.”  
  
Silva shrugged. “The Dalai Lama.”  
  
“No. Even better.”  
  
“Michael Jackson?”  
  
“No.” Villa bit his lip to quit from laughing. Silva shook his head, giving up. “Torres.” Silva’s face fell.  
  
“Torres isn’t better than Michael Jackson or the Dalai Lama.”  
  
“For the purposes of this story he is,” Villa said defiantly, forcing a straight face. “Okay, so Torres is standing there in his tiny, tight fucking swim trunks that leave nothing to the imagination, and he just stands there for a few seconds, and then he gets in the elevator. And first he looks at me, and then he looks at Casillas. And then he very pointedly does not look at Ramos. He just pushes the button for the pool deck, crosses his arms, and doesn’t say anything while Ramos stands there just fucking gaping at him, and very, _very_ clearly checking him out.”  
  
“I don’t see how this is a funny story, David.”  
  
“Just wait, it gets insane.” Villa waved a hand animatedly, then reached to tug Silva down beside him. The younger man happily complied, settling against his chest. “So we’re all standing there, awkward as fuck, Casillas and I are just looking back and forth at the other two, going like, what the hell game are these two playing, you know? It’s not like we all didn’t see the eye-sex happening at dinner, you know? Either those two are fucking or they are about to, right? You’ve seen it, babe, I know you have.”  
  
Silva rolled his eyes, but the slight smirk on his lips was enough to confirm Villa’s suspicions.  
  
“Right, so we’re all four standing there and finally Casillas, the fucking saint that he is, decides to speak. And do you know what he said?”  
  
“No,” Silva sighed. “And I’m not guessing either. Just tell me.”  
  
Villa snorted, taking hold of Silva’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “He says, ‘Sergio, remind me again what you were just saying about Nando’s ass. Something about… freckles.’ And we all stare at him. And stare. And stare. For a good five or six seconds we’re just standing there in total silence.”  
  
The younger man’s eyes went wide in both horror and amusement, unsure whether to laugh or cringe or both. “Oh my god.”  
  
“Yeah.” Villa nodded, grinning like a fiend. “And Torres turned red. And fucking Ramos turned red. And Casillas, that bastard, he just stood there looking innocent as a baby. And I couldn’t take it anymore after that, I was on the fucking floor. And the other two were both screaming at Iker. Just yelling at him like he’d blown their cover or some shit. And he just stood there, like he’d just had the sweetest taste of revenge. And when the elevator stopped at our floor, he _literally_ dragged Ramos out of there by his ear and left Torres standing there like an idiot. I swear to god, babe, I haven’t laughed that hard in months. I cried, David. I literally cried.”   
  
In all honesty, Silva didn’t find it all quite so funny. He probably would have had to be there. But then again, Iker probably wouldn’t have pulled that stunt if he were around. It wasn’t that they weren’t friendly, but they didn’t have the same rapport. He didn’t find it troubling per se, but sometimes he felt a little left out. He smiled though, for Villa’s reaction more than anything. He loved it when Villa smiled, loved the crinkles around his eyes, loved how his whole face transformed into something bright and vibrant. He went from hard to soft, stone to plush, and it made Silva so happy. And he was happy when Villa was happy, even if Villa’s joy was his own.  
  
“Too bad you didn’t record it.” Silva said at last, rubbing circles on Villa’s knuckles with his thumb.  
  
Villa mumbled in agreement, cocking his head so he could look at Silva straight on. He’d recovered from his laughter and now regarded his lover with a curious expression. “You’re in a mood, aren’t you.”  
  
The Canarian’s expression fell, only just, but enough for Villa to notice. “It’s nothing.”  
  
“It’s not nothing, David. You’ve been acting strange since dinner.” Villa mimicked Silva’s thumb motions with some furious petting of his own. “Talk to me.”  
  
Silva considered deflecting, but he knew better than to think Villa wouldn’t draw the answer from him eventually. So he just sighed and rolled onto his back to stare up at the empty white ceiling. “Fine. It’s Raúl.”  
  
Villa frowned. “Raúl. What about him?”  
  
“He’s seeing someone.”  
  
The Asturian snickered. “What, really? He’s got a girlfriend? That’s unexpected.”  
  
Silva shook his head. “He doesn’t have a girlfriend. He’s got a… I don’t even know. He’s…” He didn’t know how to classify what Raúl and Arbeloa were to each other. It wasn’t like Chori had explicitly said they were dating. He’d just said they were to each other what David and David were to each other, which seemed so impossible, because were Silva and Villa really dating? No, not really. They just _were_. So maybe Raúl and Álvaro just were, too. Except until that evening, he’d had no idea that Raúl even liked men. It was just _so_ out of left field.  
  
“You’re not jealous, are you?” Silva turned quickly to face Villa, mouth already open in protest. “Because if you’re jealous, I—”  
  
“I’m not jealous.” The younger man scowled. Villa scowled right back. “I’m just shocked.”  
  
“You’re shocked that Chori managed to find someone? Ouch. Harsh.”   
  
“It’s not that!” Silva insisted. “It’s… look, hold on a second. You noticed the eye-sex happening between Sergio and Fernando, no?” Villa nodded, not seeing where the conversation was headed. “They weren’t the _only_ ones having eye-sex during dinner.”  
  
“If you’re talking about Cesc, then—”  
  
“I’m not talking about Cesc.” Silva leveled Villa with a _look_. The look said, _come on, baby, read my mind_. Villa just stared at him dumbly. Silva sighed. “Raúl and Arbeloa are fucking.”  
  
“What?!” Villa just about choked on his own tongue, then he blanched. “You’re out of your mind! No they’re not!”  
  
“Yes they are. Raúl told me. After you took off, he pulled me aside to tell me.” Silva maintained a serious expression, even as concerned seeped into his voice.  
  
Villa managed to get over his initial dismay rather quickly. “That’s just so… like, _why_? That guy is so weird. He’s nice enough but he’s so awkward. And weird. Did I say that already? God. Also, I thought Raúl was into girls.”  
  
“So did I,” Silva said, sounding more and more worried, even just from his breathing. “But that’s not all of it. He… Chori, I mean, he… _told_.”  
  
The color drained from Villa’s face then, the realization of what that could mean hitting him like a load of bricks. “He told Arbeloa?” Silva nodded. “Why would he do that though?”  
  
Silva answered simply, “Because he’s in love.”  
  
Villa cringed. That couldn’t be right. Could it? “So he’s put everything on the line, just so he can keep fucking around with Arbeloa?” Villa was, to say the least, unimpressed.   
  
Silva bristled a little. Well, when he put it _that_ way. “I did the same thing for you, David.”   
  
Oh. Right.   
  
“But we’re in lo—” Villa almost said it, but didn’t. He didn’t have to, the look the two of them shared just then spoke volumes, could shut any naysayers up. “Like, actually. Really. We are.”   
  
“So are they,” Silva said simply, then reached over to stroke the older man’s hair. It was sticky from all the product in it, but he was used to the texture.   
  
He closed his eyes and leaned into Silva’s touch, recognizing that the petting was partly to comfort him, but mostly meant to reassure Silva. There was always tension underlying these conversations. Silva didn’t like talking about his curse or talking about the potential fall out of exposure, and Villa didn’t like seeing the man he loved twisting under the strain. It was unfair to him. Silva shouldn’t have to worry about that bullshit. He’d coddled Raúl for over a year. It was time Raúl paid the same kind of courtesy to Silva.   
  
“I could strangle him,” Villa said, though he clearly didn’t mean it. “Or at least give him a piece of my mind. Like, what the fuck! He should’ve told you he wanted to tell Arbeloa instead of just doing it.”   
  
“Yes, well. It’s done now.” Silva let his hand drag down Villa’s sideburns, then along the rough skin of his jaw. “I think what bothers me is I don’t even know this guy. He could be a complete jerk and I wouldn’t know it.”   
  
“He’s a weirdo is what he is.” Villa said.   
  
Silva raised his eyebrows. “But do you think he’s trustworthy? Or am I completely screwed here?”   
  
“He never struck me as a snake, Silvi. He’s too vapid for that.”   
  
The younger man let that settle in. He more or less agreed. Arbeloa seemed enthusiastic, perhaps to a fault. Sometimes needlessly loud. Opinionated. Generally weird, but flighty, too, like he picked and chose the information he retained. Like he might be easily distracted. Or he might say something stupid and regret it right away. And those perceptions, quite frankly, scared the crap out of Silva. The last thing he needed was to be revealed by someone foolish enough to speak before thinking. Handling Chori had been difficult enough. He wasn’t sure if he could take on another babysitting job, and this one long distance.   
  
Villa sensed the turmoil in Silva’s head, gently petting his lover’s hair. “I’m gonna talk to him. Tomorrow.”   
  
“What? To who?”   
  
“To Arbeloa. I’ll size him up. If he’s a complete fuck-up, then we’ll handle it. And if he’s serious about Chori and it’s not gonna be a problem… well, then we’ll know.” He and Silva locked eyes, and he smiled. And as he smiled, Silva felt the tension slipping away.   
  
“God, I love you.” Silva said, biting back a grin. How he ever got so lucky, he’d never know. He must have been a saint in a past life or something.   
  
“I know you do, baby.” Villa laughed, leaning in to kiss him. They stayed like that a moment, lips brushing softly, breath warm as they strove to stay together. When they finally parted, Villa smiled again. “We’re in this together. I won’t let anyone fuck you over.”   
  
“I know.”   
  
“So just relax. Let me handle this, all right?”   
  
“All right.”  Silva wasn't entirely certain, but he trusted his lover.  He wasn't going to face this alone.  He had Villa at his side, and he couldn't ask for a better man for the job.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is smut. Consider yourself forewarned. ;)


	15. Chapter Fourteen

**29 June, 2008  
** **Vienna**  
  
To say Álvaro and Raúl’s relationship was one founded on true love and romance and hearts and flowers was more than misleading, it was completely inaccurate. It hadn’t been love at first sight for them. It hadn’t even been lust at first sight. It had been tolerance at first sight, followed by an adequate length of time spent feeling each other out before easing into a sort of comfortable camaraderie. They’d met, become friendly, gotten to know one another, the usual. They’d swapped some jokes, shared a few meals together, and then over time they’d actually halfway become friends. It was all benign, normal, and not romantic in the least.  The bond between them blossomed slowly, fueled by complimentary personalities and the easy flow of conversation.  After the first few call ups, they fell into an easy sort of friendship and without anyone else really noticing, they became good friends.  
  
It wasn’t until they’d won the Euro that anything happened, and even then it seemed unlikely that it would develop into anything besides a one-off. Drunk on champagne and on the jubilance all around them, Raúl remembered meeting Álvaro’s eyes and seeing something peculiar in them. Want, need, longing. Fire, anguish, lust. He was dumbstruck, at a loss for what to do now that the unspoken had passed between them. He didn’t even like guys like that, he was pretty sure. But when he looked at Álvaro, laughing and celebrating with the rest of the team, he found himself suddenly willing to make an exception.   
  
Álvaro only smiled at him, cheeky in a way as his eyes flicked toward the door.  Raúl nodded quickly, and without a word to anyone else, the two left together.  
  
They ended up back in Raúl’s hotel room somehow, the details were a little bit fuzzy still. Somehow they’d both lost their shirts and Raúl’s pants were partway unfastened, hanging on his hips. He remembered kissing Álvaro, standing over him, wanting to control him and dominate him in a way that almost made him feel afraid. He had Álvaro pressed to the wall, biting hungrily at his collarbone, wild with the feral sense of urgency and instinct. He pinned the older man’s wrists up above his head, using his size and strength to hold and keep Álvaro just where he wanted him. Raúl felt at once both entirely in control of things and completely out of his element. His struggle only intensified when he eased back from Álvaro and looked into his eyes. Álvaro smiled, relaxed, calm, and completely at ease.   
  
“You really like that, huh?” He said, smile spreading wide. It was almost a sneer, come to think of it.   
  
Raúl gulped, licking his lips. He could still taste the champagne there and he tried to remember how much he’d had. Not nearly enough to justify his behavior, but he wasn’t sure he especially cared anymore. And from the looks of it, Álvaro’s inhibitions were decidedly absent as well.   
  
Realizing he’d spent an inordinate period just staring at Álvaro and basically undressing him the rest of the way with his eyes, he nodded, shifting away from the other man, letting off the pressure on his wrists. Álvaro gave a wicked smirk, reaching down to stroke Raúl’s burgeoning erection, still trapped in his pants.  He looked up at Raúl, eyes both seductive and mischievous, veiled by his long lashes.  That look had Raúl feeling all turned around inside.  
  
“Look how hard you are, Chori.  And it's all for me.”   
  
Raúl gasped, body arching at the touch. Making out was one thing, but groping was another. Or was it? The lines seemed blurry somehow. Was Álvaro really asking for that? Did he really want to…?   
  
“Yes.  _Fuck_ , yes, Varo.  It's all for you.” Raúl spoke before he could stop himself, but realized quickly that he didn't actually want to stop.  He didn't want to stop at all.  He dared steal a glance down at Álvaro's crotch, heart racing at the outline of his bulging cock.  
  
The older man flicked his tongue over his teeth, breaking the serious mood then with an knowing laugh.  Still there was a flash of doubt there, mingling with the heaviness of his need, like underneath the bravado and need to take control Álvaro was a little bit afraid.  Or maybe it was just nerves and the rush of intimacy.  Maybe that's what it was.  Raúl felt it, the desire practically radiated from Álvaro as he urged their hips back together.  “Then keep going.  Don't stop now.  Not when we've gone this far already.”   
  
Raúl hesitated, only for a moment, to consider if he could go through with it, or should. His dark eyes raked over Álvaro, taking him in, consuming him with a look. His stomach twisted, nerves and hormones rushing through him. If he was going to do it, he had to do it then, otherwise he would surely chicken out. So he took a deep breath and pressed back into Álvaro, and in the course of things they’d wrestled their way to the bed somehow, tussling with each other, pulling off their pants and underwear, tangling themselves in the sheets with strong bodies tensing and teeth gritted and gnashing.    
  
They kissed and bit each other, struggling for dominance until Raúl wound up on top.  He was bigger, stronger. He could keep Álvaro right where he wanted him.  Raúl felt the rush of nerves and the sickening turn of anticipation in him as he pinned the other man down and dragged his teeth along his jaw.  Álvaro smelled like sweat and cologne and sex, and Raúl couldn't stop himself from forcing Álvaro's legs apart with his knee.  As he slid his body down along Álvaro's, their cocks brushed against each other and they moaned for it.  
  
The older man rolled his head back, exhaling sharply, clearly impatient.  “Are we gonna fuck or not?”   
  
Raúl almost choked, pulling back from Álvaro's neck just below his ear, where he'd been pressing his teeth against flesh, leaving a faint little bruise.  He felt himself blushing faintly, though he knew full well he had nothing to blush about.  “I... yeah.  I just haven't ever... You know, not with another...”   
  
“Virgin.” Álvaro said amused, pulling Chori's face to his, fingers tangled in his thick dark hair.  “Never been with a guy before?  Hm.  Well.  Just do what I say and you'll figure it out.  Basic instinct kicks in.  It's all a matter of biology.”   
  
“When you put it that way, it sounds so clinical.”  Raúl said, laughing nervously.  
  
“Just follow my lead, Raúlito,” Álvaro murmured, pulling Raúl down so he could bite at the faint white scars on his throat.  “I'll make it good.”   
  
The sex was rough, almost brutal in its savagery. Raúl had no idea what he was doing, only knew that he wanted to hear Álvaro whining and moaning and sobbing for him, always wanted to hear it, never wanted him to stop making those sounds. They didn’t have proper lube or a condom, only having the sample sized hotel lotions to make due. And make due, they did. Álvaro didn’t seem to give a shit if the sex was pretty or painless. He was demanding. He was commanding. And while Raúl was the one doing the fucking, there was no doubt at all as to who was actually in full control of the situation. Álvaro showed Raúl what to do to prepare him for sex, how much lubrication was needed, showed him how to insert a finger first, then two, to stretch him and get him ready to be fucked.  He knew what he liked and how he liked it, and Raúl was an eager pupil, eager to please.  Álvaro dictated their position, the angle, the speed. And he talked,  _a lot_. Raúl almost found it distracting, but at the same time he was desperate to do it right, to fuck Álvaro how he wanted it, to please him. And it was so satisfying when Álvaro shut up, unable to speak in coherent words because he was moaning and panting and  _begging_  Raúl to fuck him harder, faster, right there, fuck, right there, oh god, right there, don’t fucking stop now fuck fuck fuck.   
  
Raúl felt his orgasm coming on quickly, felt the wave building inside.  He couldn't take much more, not with the obscene way Álvaro rolled against him, so tight around him, like they were made to fuck each other, like Raúl's cock was made to fit inside of him, like he wanted Raúl in him for the rest of his life.  This was bliss.  This was fucking heaven.  Why had they never done this before?   _Fuck_.  
  
He slowed his thrusting, just so, fingers pressing bruises into Álvaro’s hips.   
  
“Don’t fucking stop, you bastard!  Fuck me!” The older man practically wailed, glaring over his shoulder at him, moving his own hips back against Raúl’s, frantic to ride the wave of sensation, to get himself off.   
  
“Álvaro, I…” His breathing was unsteady and he sounded so helpless that Álvaro couldn’t help but smile a little. “I’m gonna come.”   
  
Álvaro didn’t seem to like that answer, abruptly stopping himself and making the attempt to squirm away. Raúl was so dumbfounded by what was happening that he made no move to stop him, instead watching in horror as Álvaro escaped his grasp and flipped onto his back on the bed. Raúl had to admit, he was a delicious sight, sweaty and lean, pupils dilated with lust, cock hard and leaking and begging to be sucked. He’d never sucked cock before, but he’d be down, he thought. He had to grab hold of his own cock and apply some damn pressure before he came all over Álvaro right then and there.   
  
“Get me off.  I want to come.  Me first.” Álvaro said, lowering his chin as he made his demand. Raúl nodded, unable to deny him anything he wanted.  His own erection still in hand, he rolled the older man onto his side and lowered himself down beside him, aligning their hips just so.  He took hold of both of their cocks in one of his hands, stroking them slowly at first, then increasing in speed and intensity until he drew out the most brilliantly desperate pleas from his lover, mimicking those sounds on his own.  Álvaro came first, shuddering as he shot all over Raúl's cock and belly.  Raúl came moment after, orgasm hitting him suddenly like a tidal wave as he spurted into his own hand, using the come to slick over the both of them, milking out every last bit until they were both empty and satisfied.  
  
They'd stayed in bed like that for a moment, breathing hard, stuck together in a messy heap before Álvaro took hold of Raúl's hand and brought it up to his lips, tongue darting out to taste the remains of himself and Raúl on his finger tips.  He held the younger man's gaze as he did, smirking a little as he licked some of their come off Raúl's knuckles.  Raúl shivered, and then, without thinking much at all, he leaned forward and pressed their mouths together.  
  
“Dirty.”  Álvaro murmured as they broke the kiss.  Raúl couldn't help it.  He was grinning, so pleased with himself.  “And smug, too.  You had a good time, I presume.”   
  
“Hell yeah,” he said, studying the older man, like he was trying to commit every detail of him to memory.  “And you?  Did you... was it...?”   
  
He clicked his tongue softly, sitting up.  As he did, he gave Raúl a sly smile.  “I should go.  It's getting late.”  Chori opened his mouth to protest but was cowed by Álvaro's commanding stare.  He could only watch in dumb wonder as the other man cleaned up using his bedsheets, then dressed himself quickly.  It was only a small consolation that there were visible marks all along Álvaro's throat.  Raúl found those to be highly satisfying, and he might have said so if the older man wasn't already halfway out the door.    
  
“Get some sleep, kid,” Álvaro said, looking back at the still mostly nude Chori.  Their eyes met for a moment, and Raúl suddenly felt drunk all over again.  He was spiraling, suddenly overcome by _something_ he couldn't quite put a name to. The satisfaction he'd felt moments before faded without a trace as he watched Álvaro walk away. The older man raised an eyebrow, calling over his shoulder as he turned the doorknob, “You're gonna need it.  There's plenty more celebrating to be done tomorrow.”   
  
Raúl sank back into his bed, naked, unsettled, terrified out of his mind, and without anyone to turn to. And that was that.  For the moment, anyway.


	16. Chapter Fifteen

  
Despite Sergio’s best efforts, Iker stood firm in his refusal to swap rooms with Fernando, though truth be told he was  _almost_  tempted to give in. Sergio drove him up the wall with his nonstop complaining about the injustice of having to room with Iker when Fernando was waiting for him just down the hall. Sergio even threatened to swap with Xabi instead, to take matters into his own hands before Iker made some quiet threat under his breath and shut him up. Years of being best friends meant Iker had  _plenty_  of ammunition to dangle over Sergio's head. He knew some shit that made even the unflappable Sergio blush. And if Sergio wanted to prevent his precious Nando from finding out some of these dark and dirty secrets, he'd just have to shut up and stay with Iker for the night.  Their little kerfuffle in the elevator with Villa and Torres was just the beginning.  Iker could be downright vicious, when it suited his mood.  
  
Sometimes the only way to deal with Sergio was to treat him like the petulant child he was.  
  
The Sevillan pouted, moped, huffed, and was generally a drama queen for the rest of the evening before he eventually fell asleep, curled up on the bed beside Iker, where he’d thrown himself in a fit. It wasn't atypical, nor was it especially uncomfortable. Iker relaxed and stayed awake for awhile to read, using Sergio’s sleeping form as an armrest until his eyes were heavy and he began to doze off.  
  
  
—  
  
  
Iker woke with a start when he heard someone at the door. He sat up, looking over to where he should have spotted Sergio’s outline on the other half of the bed. Instead the bed was empty. The room was empty, and as he climbed out from the covers he realized he was still fully clothed. Not thinking much of it, he went to the door and opened it, inhaling sharply when he was face to face with Cesc.  
  
“Hey.” The younger man looked at him, a little nervous.  
  
“Hey,” Iker repeated, leaning heavily against the door. His hands suddenly felt clammy. What the hell was Cesc doing at his door, and at this hour?  
  
“Can I come in?” Cesc asked. Iker nodded and opened the door to let him in. He locked the door behind Cesc, just in case Sergio decided to reappear unannounced. They lingered at the doorway, looking at each other before Cesc broke the silence with a laugh. “I wanted to see you, Iker.”  
  
“You did?” Iker blinked.  
  
“Uh-huh.” The Catalan at once seemed at ease, brushing past him and toward the beds. Iker followed dutifully. Cesc paused between them, eyeing them carefully. One was distinctly messy while the other was perfectly made. He turned then, to look back at Iker. “Didn’t you want to see me, too?”  
  
His breath caught in his throat. He nodded.  
  
“Say it, Iker.”  
  
Iker’s heart stopped, just for a second, but he didn’t even hesitate. “I wanted to see you, Cesc.”  
  
“I know.” Cesc smiled, blinking slowly. “Will Sergio be back soon?”  
  
“He's... I think he's with Fernando, so.  No, probably. Why?”  
  
The Catalan gave a small shrug, then without any further warning, he closed the space between them.   
  
Before Iker could react, Cesc’s lips were mere centimeters from his and he could feel the heat of the other man’s breath, almost feel the scratch of his stubble. Just then they made full eye contact and Iker felt himself start to melt under the intensity of his gaze. There was such need in Cesc’s eyes, an almost innocent, cautious longing in them. Iker couldn’t help himself, he just had to touch him. Without a second thought, he threaded his fingers in Cesc’s thick, wavy hair.  
  
The younger man took that as his cue to lean in and press his lips to Iker for a kiss that was anything but chaste. Cesc kissed him unabashedly, fiercely, like his life depended on kissing Iker, like it was the only thing he wanted to do, like kissing Iker was breathing. Iker had never been kissed like that before, not by anybody, not in his entire life.  
  
Iker didn't hesitate to respond, though he knew he probably should. He should have recoiled or pushed him away or something. But he didn't. He leaned into him, lips parting to let Cesc’s tongue into his mouth. And he pulled Cesc closer, too, because their mouths felt so good together, and because thinking about the consequences was an unpleasant prospect. He pulled gently at Cesc's hair, and he pressed his lips against his harder, breathing quickly against his mouth. His other hand cupped Cesc's hip and he let his eyes fall closed, losing himself in the moment.  
  
A tiny squeal escaped Cesc's lips, and he grabbed hold of Iker's shirt, tugging at it randomly as they kissed. After a few seconds Cesc pulled back, just long enough to catch his breath. And as soon as he caught his breath, he leaned in to kiss Iker again. After a moment or two, he murmured encouragingly, “Mmm… Iker…”  
  
“Ah,” the keeper exhaled, catching his lips again and running his hand up Cesc's thigh. He pressed closer, chests pressed together, murmuring against the younger man's mouth. His heart was pounding, it was so loud it was like a freight train rattling in his ribcage. His whole body was trembling from the thrill of the moment, and he was suddenly a little bit nervous. Aside from his own heart, he couldn't hear much. His whole body felt like he was trembling, like his lips were tingling, like everywhere Cesc touched him was buzzing and alive. It felt good, it did, and Iker didn't want him to stop.  
  
But for some reason, he  _did_  stop. Cesc was still Cesc, and the urge to chatter on persisted even in the heat of the moment.  
  
“Iker, one second, wait,” Cesc breathed against his lips, unable to resist the urge to kiss him between phrases. If Iker was paying any attention at all, he'd probably notice that Cesc was blushing just a bit. “I'm glad I came over. I mean, this isn't so bad, right? I mean, you like this too, don't you?”  
  
The older man stopped what he was doing, retreating just enough so that he could fully regard the Catalan. It wasn’t that he was surprised that Cesc wanted to take a moment to stop and chat, but truthfully he was mildly exasperated by it. Iker’s mouth twitched into a slight scowl. He was trying to relax himself, but it was difficult with his mind and hormones suddenly running wild. He finally had what he’d always wanted. This was no time for a drawn out conversation. They could talk  _afterward_. "No, it's not bad," he said quickly, fingers pressing into the flesh of Cesc’s waist. “It’s good. It’s amazing. And it could be even better, if we used our mouths for stuff other than talking.”  
  
Cesc’s eyes went wide with a ready understanding. "Right. So we both like it, and we're both in agreement that it's good, and we both want to, so..." He couldn't finish that sentence. He was too busy attacking Iker's mouth with his, kissing and nipping at him fiercely, finger curling at the hem of Iker’s t-shirt.  
  
Iker’s heart was beating like a drum and he couldn't stop himself from gasping softly between kisses. He moved against Cesc, pressing their bodies close together, somehow managing to pull off his shirt in the midst of it all, only breaking the kiss for a moment. Tossing his shirt to the floor, he tugged the other man with him toward the bed and fell back onto it, pulling Cesc down with him. The younger man settled on top of him, sitting up enough so that he could start fumbling with the buttons of his own shirt. He only got a few of them undone before he moved on, randomly pawing at the button of Iker’s jeans, running his fingers along the defined lines of his stomach. Iker’s back arched slightly at the cool touch of Cesc’s fingers over the sensitive skin of his belly, shivering from anticipation more than from the cold. As he looked up into Cesc’s dark eyes, he felt himself overcome with lust, felt himself going mad from animalistic need. It wasn’t just affection guiding him anymore. It was pure desire at the wheel. He needed to fuck this man and he needed to fuck him  _now_.  
  
“Oh fuck,” Iker growled, sinking into the bed, a look of excitement and anguish on his face. He looked so fucking hot, staring down at him like he wanted Iker to fuck him, to completely  _own_  him. He’d seen that look in Cesc's eyes before, only now did he fully grasp what it meant. “Oh fuck, Cesc…”   
  
Cesc’s eyes lit up and ceased his teasing for just a moment, tugging at his shirt and tossing it uselessly to the floor. Every movement had a frantic, hurried quality to it, like if he hesitated for a moment the rational part of his mind would spring to life and he'd get cold feet. But then again, how could he get cold feet when everything felt so good? He didn't want to think about it. Instead he focused on how pleasant Iker’s hands felt on his body, how this moment was the culmination of years and years of fantasy and longing. Absently, he let out a heavy sigh and bit playfully at Iker's throat, whispering teasing noises against his skin. “Do you like that? Hm, Iker? Is that good?”   
  
“Yes…” Iker sighed, eyes rolling back. “Don’t stop.”  
  
“Don’t worry, baby. I won’t.” Cesc practically purred, biting up Iker’s throat to his jaw, licking at the stubble on his chin.  
  
Panting, Iker stroked his hand up his back again, turning his head to possessively kiss Cesc’s mouth. It was easy to fall into some sort of rhythm of rocking their hips together. Iker had to admit he felt kind of like a teenager again, the way they were making out in a hotel room, almost cautiously exploring each others bodies. The rush felt good though, it had been too long since he felt this kind of need and excitement. It had been along time since he’d felt this way about anyone at all.  
  
Before he could stop himself, he was unfastening Cesc’s belt, shifting his own hips to fumble with his own a moment later. “God,” he murmured, meaning it in the best way possible.  
  
Cesc grinned, face somehow a pure mix of innocence and debauchery. How he managed it was beyond Iker’s capacity to understand. It was almost infuriating how he could look so sexy and so naive at the exact same time, giving Iker bedroom eyes while maintaining the expression of a clueless little virgin all the while. Iker knew better, but it was effective nonetheless, and it absolutely drove him crazy. He was hard as a rock, mind running wild with all the things he might do to this man, all the ways he could bend him and twist him and make him scream.  
  
Meanwhile, Cesc was singularly focused on getting them both completely undressed and on whether or not he was really and truly going to go through with this. His mind was mostly made up, after all, he was half naked and draped on top of Iker, biting and sucking on his neck like he was going to give him a hickey. Still, he couldn't help but feel like some sort of clarification was necessary, like it needed to be said flat out. He caught Iker's gaze again, exhaling with a nervous laugh, blushing in spite of himself.   
  
“You've got a condom? Right?” The Catalan blinked, rocking his hips with Iker’s in a slow, arduous pace. Iker wasn’t sure they’d need a condom if he kept doing that. The pressure was so perfect, so heavy, so right, that he was half scared he would come in his pants right then.  
  
“Yeah… yeah hold on,” Iker breathed, arching up to try to find his wallet in his back pocket. It was quite a process, considering Cesc was still straddling him.  He moved carefully, lifting Cesc up gently, and as he did he noticed something was off.  Instead of feeling the weight of Cesc's body and the resistance that ought to have accompanied it, moving the Catalan was far too easy.  It was almost as if Cesc weighed nothing at all.  
  
“Iker? What are you doing?” he laughed. Except it wasn’t Cesc’s laugh. It wasn’t Cesc’s laugh at all. Iker's whole body went tense as Cesc stared down his nose at him.  “Seriously? Is this happening?”   
  
Iker’s eyes went huge. He knew that voice. He knew that voice  _very well_. His stomach sank and he suddenly felt sick. “What… what the fuck?”   
  
No sooner had he said the words than everything seemed to crash down around him. Cesc, beautiful, hungry, and half-nude above him vanished into nothingness and the hotel room dissipated first into blackness and then into… well,  _another_ hotel room. Iker’s eyes fluttered open and his surroundings came slowly into view. Cesc wasn’t in bed with him. Cesc wasn’t there at all. Instead, Iker was nose to nose with Sergio — a mostly  _clothed_  and highly amused Sergio. It was dark, with only the traces of moonlight peeking through the curtains illuminating them, but there was no mistaking Sergio's figure in the dark. The younger man had a habit of inserting himself into places he wasn’t welcome and didn’t belong. He was like a pet in that way, and Iker’d gotten used to waking up to his Sese or sometimes falling asleep beside him. But that didn’t exactly mean he was keen on this particular intrusion. It was seeing him face to face after having a very intense, very  _vivid_  sex dream that made everything so awkward.   
  
“What the— ? Jesus, Sergio!” Iker sat up, flailing gracelessly as he grabbed for a blanket.   
  
The Sevillan was grinning like a madman, almost unable to contain his amusement. “Iker, you dog!”  
  
“What are you doing here?” Iker sputtered, absolutely tomato red, though he prayed to God he wasn’t.  
  
“ _I_  was sleeping, my friend.  _You_ , on the other hand…” Sergio raised his eyebrows, gesturing to Iker’s noticeable erection.  
  
Iker’s face somehow turned a deeper shade of red.   
  
Sergio cackled. “So?”  
  
“So what?” Iker grabbed a pillow to provide some modesty while he waited for his hard on to go the fuck away. “These things happen sometimes. You should know that, ass. It’s not like you haven’t woken up with a raging boner. I’ve been rooming with you since you were a teenager. I would know.”  
  
“Yeah, but that’s me. That doesn’t even count.” The younger man insisted, leering at him. “You’re usually so discrete, Iker. You hardly ever wake up all hot and bothered like this.” Iker turned his head to face Sergio, eyes narrowing. If looks could kill, the defender would be begging for mercy on the floor, except that Sergio had years of built up resistance and was immune to Iker’s death stares. “What were you dreaming about?”  
  
“Nothing,” the keeper answered, way too quickly.  
  
Sergio raised an eyebrow, propping himself up on his elbows. “Okay.  _Who_  were you dreaming about?”  
  
“No one,” Iker replied, just as fast as before.   
  
Sergio rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going to say as much, but he’d heard Iker mumbling in his sleep. The heavy moans had dragged him awake, and the realization that Iker was panting out Cesc’s name were what kept him from falling back sleep. He wouldn’t have bothered waking Iker except the older man had started to grind against him in his sleep, and while he adored Iker and everything about him, Sergio wasn’t prepared to participate in his wet dreams. Not unless _he_ was starring in them, of course. So he sighed and rolled onto his side, smirking to himself once his face was obscured from view. He’d hold this information close to his chest for the moment. It might be useful someday.  
  
From the other half of the bed, Iker fumed. “Why are you still here? You have your own bed, you know!” Sergio didn’t move. “Sese! Get out of my bed!”  
  
“No.” Sergio said. “You refused to swap with Nando and you know I hate sleeping alone. So consider this a compromise. Now stop whining and go take care of your hard on. Not here, in the bathroom. And then come back to bed. And Iker,” he yawned, “Try not to fuck anyone in your dreams this time. All that moaning disrupts my beauty sleep.”  
  
Iker wanted to strangle him. He really did. Sergio could be so obnoxious, sometimes he wasn’t sure how or why he adored him as much as he did. But he did adore Sergio, even when he was an annoying little ass, so instead of exacting some form of revenge for his humiliation, he climbed out of bed and stomped off to the bathroom. And just to be safe, he locked the door behind him.  
  
Sergio smiled sleepily at the muffled sound of the shower running and drifted back to sleep.


	17. Chapter Sixteen

Dawn arrived too early for the men of Spain, and they were herded onto the bus for the ride over to the training facilities after having a quick and rather uneventful (for them) breakfast. They sat with their usual companions, most tuned out, listening to music, some engaged in quiet conversation during the drive. Cesc sat next to Gerard, having decided to forgive him after a bit of soul searching. It wasn’t worth it to stay mad at his friend. Besides, if nothing ever came of his fantasies about Iker, he’d surely long for Geri’s company. Ahead of them, Silva and Villa sat, speaking to each other in hushed voices, too quiet for Cesc to distinguish their words. Not that he was particularly interested in them anyway. They were curiosities to him more than anything else. Instead, his attention lingered on Iker, who sat in the very front row next to Xavi. Cesc had a prime viewing angle from his seat and he admired the captain with discrete, veiled glances, pretending that he was engrossed in Geri’s description of some TV movie he was really into.  
  
“Sounds great,” Cesc said with forced enthusiasm, stealing a shy peek toward Iker, who was very pointedly not looking his way.  
  
“I didn’t even get to the part with the explosion!” Geri grinned, carrying on, either oblivious to Cesc’s wandering eyes or purposely ignoring them.  
  
Iker, meanwhile, was busy attempting to become engrossed in conversation with Xavi, who seemed especially keen on discussing midfield tactics of some kind. It wasn’t that it went over Iker’s head or that he was disinterested in what Xavi had to say— the opposite was true, in fact. He just couldn’t quite shake his embarrassment over what had happened the night before, with Sergio and his dream. Thankfully, Sergio had let him off rather easy that morning and kept his mouth shut, opting to give Iker knowing glances while gesturing back toward Cesc with his chin. It was  _so_  immature and so _completely_  Sergio that it hurt. But Iker refused to give in. He wasn’t going to let Sergio or his imagination get the best of him, and he certainly wasn’t going to make an ass of himself in front of Cesc, not with only one friendly to go before the Confederation’s Cup.  
  
“… which is why we need to be wary of a deep 4-4-2. Drawing the defense out of formation will create spatial opportunities into wider areas, which can otherwise be countered by utilizing a— ”  
  
“Uh-huh, yeah. Totally. Sounds terrific.” Iker said automatically, giving a nod of enthusiasm that he hoped sounded convincing enough. He realized a moment too late that he sounded like a complete tool.  
  
Xavi stared at him, his dark gaze cutting him down and making him feel about two inches tall. The keeper swallowed, meeting the Barça captain’s steely look with one of his own. It only lasted a moment before Iker backed down, gesturing politely for Xavi to continue.   
  
“Another thing we ought to consider is the double-marking method, which can undermine the passing rhythm…”  
  
And that’s how it was. A normal, quiet, ordinary morning. Until the mister announced that their training session would commence after a round of team-building activities. If they’d felt comfortable enough, several of the men would have groaned or rolled their eyes. Instead, they all eagerly nodded and did as they were instructed, dividing themselves up into smaller groups for the exercises. Cesc and Geri would work together, naturally, and were soon joined by Xavi, Carles, Busquets, and Güiza. Across the room, other little groups were forming, splitting along club lines as per usual. Del Bosque threw his hands up in exasperation.  
  
“No, no!” he chided. “If I wanted you to waste this time chatting with your friends, we wouldn’t have to do this.  I want you in pairs.  Pairs!” His frown was intense, imposing, and he looked around the group one by one, finally singling out Cesc. The coach grinned and gestured for him to step forward. The Catalan’s face went slightly pale, but he immediately obeyed. “You, Fàbregas. You will work with…” Del Bosque paused, looking over his shoulder, “… Alonso. Piqué, you will work with Albiol. Torres will work with Puyol. Do you see what I am doing? I’m splitting the clubs. I don’t care about your clubs. We’re Spain. We care about Spain. Now, the rest of you sort yourselves out. Quickly now.”  
  
Del Bosque clapped his hands and stepped to the side to confer with one of the staff members while the men all exchanged glances and started dividing themselves up again. Some naturally gravitated toward one another and found the task easy. Others… well…  
  
“This is so stupid!” Sergio muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Iker to catch it. “Why did he have to assign Fernando’s partner?  _I_  could have been Fernando’s partner.”  
  
“Relax,” Iker shushed him, though he was thinking the very same thing about Cesc. His consolation prize came from pairing up with Xavi, who would hopefully be willing to discuss something besides his woes in the midfield.  “Look, Silva still needs a partner.”  
  
Sergio held his tongue, but Iker knew he was still fuming as he trudged over to the Canarian, who hadn't moved from his spot next to Villa. “Silva, you’re with me.”   
  
Villa gave Sergio  _a look_ , then trotted off, leaving Silva behind. He had something important to do anyway. As Silva greeted Sergio, Villa expertly cut Santi off before he could approach Álvaro, grinning wickedly at the taller man, “Arbeloa. You’re with me.”  
  
Álvaro blinked, looking down his nose at him, face a perfectly concocted mix of trepidation and false bravado. He hadn’t expected this turn of events, but would do his damnedest not to let on just how weirded out he was. “All right. Super.”  
  
Villa gave him a wicked smirk and from across the room Raúl suddenly felt a pang of terror. Silva stood in silent observation; Sergio fumed. Fernando smiled wistfully; Iker remained calm. And from his place beside Xabi, Cesc admired their captain and sighed the dreamiest of sighs.  
  
Santi frowned then, being the only one left without a partner. He looked rather helpless for a moment before silently angling his way in with Iker and Xavi to form a group of three.  Del Bosque gave a nod of approval and instructed the men to begin their team bonding experience with a simple warm-up exercise.    
  
“I want you to face one another, take each other by the hand, and maintain eye contact for at least sixty seconds. Whichever of you pairs can keep it up the longest will win.”   
  
Clearly the order was to be taken seriously, but that didn’t mean all of the participants were comfortable with the situation. Cesc was perhaps the most at ease with their task, taking hold of both of Xabi’s hands even before Del Bosque could glance at his watch. He started them off and there was a rising hum of chatter which filled the room. Silva reached out for Sergio, giving the taller man a shrug.  Sergio eyed Silva with a certain level of disinterest.  He didn't mean to be rude he was only preoccupied by more pressing matters.  He was competitive and he wanted to win the staring contest, no matter how stupid it was, but his attention was quickly diverted when he heard Nando’s laughter high above the din.  He turned away from Silva, ignoring the Canarian’s protests, only to see Fernando smiling at Carles, happy and charming as always.  Sergio fumed and turned back to start over with Silva.  
  
Santi, Xavi, and Iker formed a strange triangle, unable to fully complete the task as instructed but determined to follow through nonetheless. Raúl smiled helplessly at Geri, hoping to get that minute over with as quickly as possible so that he could look over at Álvaro and Villa, who were staring each other down like gunfighters in a spaghetti western. They were past the point of ridicule, eyes locked and narrowed, hands entwined. They were in the far corner, had somehow found that open spot for themselves, still part of the group but removed enough that they could talk without anyone hearing every word of their conversation. Villa was crafty like that. He knew what he was doing.   
  
“Has anyone ever told you you have kind eyes?” He asked, running his tongue over his incisor facetiously.   
  
“Someone told me that once, yeah,” Álvaro said, hoping he sounded (and appeared) unfazed.  Internally he was screaming for help.  Whatever Villa had up his sleeve, he definitely didn't like it.  He wasn't about to back down, though.  Not even a little.  
  
“They remind me of something. I’m just not sure what it is.”   
  
“I don’t know. I can’t help you out here.”   
  
“It’s an animal, I think. Yes, definitely an animal. What kind of animal would you say you are, Arbie?”   
  
Álvaro breathed in quickly, resisting the urge to look around. “I…  _what_?”   
  
“Because I was going to say a cow. Your eyes remind me of a cow’s eyes. Yes, you remind me of a cow.”   
  
“A  _cow_? Are you out of your mind? I’m not like cow. I’m  _nothing_  like a cow.” Álvaro actually looked offended.   
  
That was the exact reaction Villa was looking for. He raised his eyebrows, maintaining full eye contact as he pressed on. “So what are you, Arbeloa? A cat? A mouse? A wolf in sheep’s clothing? A  _snake_?”   
  
“Oh hardly!” He gave a sharp laugh, biting back the urge to roll his eyes or shake his head. “What gives, man? Why are you trying to divine my spirit animal? Did someone put you up to this?”   
  
“Just answer the question.” Villa said, with all the inflection of a DMV employee two minutes before closing time on a Friday.   
  
The younger man pursed his lips, wanting so desperately to look behind him, look away, look anywhere but straight ahead into Villa’s eyes. But he had to, couldn’t look away, hypnotized by the blackness there, competitive streak pushing him onward. Álvaro gulped, scrunched his nose a little, then said softly, “I dunno, maybe like a gryphon or something.”   
  
Silence. Total silence was the reply. Followed seconds later by a guffaw loud enough to dominate the room. With but two exceptions, all of the occupants turned to stare at the pair of them (thus disqualifying themselves) and Álvaro’s expression wasn’t so much mortified as it was out of sorts.   
  
“What?” He demanded, lips curled into a frown. “What’s wrong with that?”   
  
“You can’t pick a fucking gryphon. Gryphons aren’t fucking real.”   
  
“You didn’t say it had to be a real animal.”   
  
“That’s because I assumed you’d know better. God, I swear this is like talking to a piece of bread.”   
  
“Listen, man, there is nothing wrong with having an affinity for _mythological beings_. It’s not my fault you— ”   
  
“Because I assumed you were— ”   
  
“Enough, gentlemen,” Del Bosque clapped his hands again and both turned quickly to look at him. The coach seemed less than enthused, pointing over to Fernando and Carles who were still holding hands at maintaining eye contact while engaging in a polite conversation. Both Villa and Arbeloa felt their faces fall, and both looked across the room to find their lovers staring back at them. Silva was biting on his lip, an eyebrow cocked skeptically. Raúl looked like he wanted to slap someone. “Our next activity is red-hands. I’m sure you all recall this from your boyhood days. We’ll play for five minutes starting now.”  
  
Geri was oblivious to Raúl’s anguish and took the new task quite seriously, slapping the Valencian’s hands hard enough to make them burn and sting.  He was able to do so four or five times before Raúl finally got his head in the game and started to react properly.

“Ow!” He hissed, shaking his hands out with a wince.  

The Catalan smirked and put his hands out for another round.  “Too slow, Chori.  You have to pay attention.”

“Yeah, well,” he grumbled, glancing over at Villa and Álvaro.  “I’m a little distracted.”

“By those clowns?” Geri snorted, slapping Raúl’s hands sharply to get his attention.  The other man flinched.  “Just ignore them.  They’re annoying.”    
  
Yeah, they were annoying. Raúl could concede as much, though he still stole occasional glances in their direction, wary of the aggressive look in Villa’s eyes. He knew that look, knew it all too well. He knew Álvaro didn't need him to jump in on his behalf or anything, but Villa was obviously plotting something. He just wished he could figure out what it was and spare his boyfriend some grief.  

Gerard slapped him again, snorting triumphantly. “Gotcha!”   
  
“Hey! That hurt!”   
  
Silva and Sergio were dutifully playing along, both taking the game about as seriously as could be expected considering they both had their attentions diverted. Sergio was still paying more attention to Fernando and Carles than he was to his partner, while Silva covertly observed Villa and Arbeloa, unable to make out what either one of them was saying. Both Sergio and Silva went through the motions though, slapping randomly at each other’s hands, in their own thoughts to the point that neither of them noticed how in the midst of the session, Cesc and Xabi somehow ended up right beside them, both with curious expressions.   
  
“I don’t think they’ve spotted us,” Cesc grinned, speaking in a stage whisper.   
  
Xabi raised his eyebrows and cleared his throat. “How are you enjoying the scenery, gentlemen?”   
  
Silva and Sergio both snapped back to reality, turning quickly to look at them, both somewhat sheepish at being called out. Sergio recovered quickest, petulant for a moment before reverting to his typical level of cool. “The view’s just swell, Xabier. Now what the hell do you want?”   
  
“Del Bosque told us to swap with you two. He says you look like a couple of lifeless fish.” Xabi spoke matter of factly, as if the fact that  _their coach_ noticed their lackluster enthusiasm for the team building game wasn’t a big deal or anything. Both Silva and Sergio were sufficiently spooked. “Come on, Ramos. You and I need to have a little talk.”   
  
Cesc gave Xabi a cute little smirk, bounding toward Silva, whispering in a low voice. “Okay, fill a guy in. What’s up with those two?”   
  
“Who? You mean Sergio and…?” The Canarian realized quickly that he was mistaken, following Cesc’s eyes back to where Arbeloa and Villa were slapping at each other’s hands. Each of them seemed to get an odd sort of satisfaction from it. Silva frowned a little, then looked back to Cesc. “They’re just talking.” He almost sounded convincing. Almost.   
  
Cesc laughed brightly, putting his hands out to play the game. “It’s weird though, isn’t it?”   
  
“What’s so weird about it?” Silva struck quickly, slapping both of Cesc’s hands with slightly excessive force. The Catalan winced and hissed.   
  
“Nothing,” Cesc said, pouting a little. “It’s just that I didn’t think they were friends.”   
  
Silva looked back to them, noticing then that something had changed. They’d been so confrontational before, Villa attacking, attacking, attacking, relentlessly pursuing, Arbeloa defensive, immobile, resisting at every turn. They’d been like that the whole time. Except they weren’t anymore. Their expressions had softened slightly and Silva could swear he saw understanding in his lover’s eyes.   
  
“I didn’t know they were either.”

Indeed, the encounter between Arbeloa and Villa had taken a turn for the poignant. They’d been doing their thing, slapping each other, not so much aggressive or angry as pointedly put off by the other, when Álvaro finally caved.   
  
“Is this about Raúl? Did Silva send you over here to hound me about this?”   
  
Villa, to his credit, only gave a slight shrug, a sufficient enough answer.   
  
Álvaro sighed, dark eyes going steely then. “All right then. You can tell Silva that what goes on between me and Raúl is between me and Raúl and no one else. It’s none of his business.”   
  
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Villa said, voice low and sharp. He leaned in close, so only Álvaro could hear his words. “David has every right to be concerned.”   
  
The defender set his jaw, “No he doesn’t. He doesn’t know anything about us.”   
  
“That’s why he’s fucking concerned.”   
  
“That’s why he’s already judging us. That’s why he told Chori he thinks we’re going to break up.”   
  
“He doesn’t think that.”   
  
“Well Chori thinks that he thinks that.”   
  
“He doesn’t think that, you moron.”   
  
“Chori’s known Silva longer than you have, so I’m pretty sure he—”   
  
“ _Excuse me_? No. Listen, pal, I know David better than he does, and I— ”   
  
“No, you hold on. I know Chori better than  _he_  does. And Chori knows me better than any of you do. So back off.”   
  
While the two of them were still keeping their voices quiet, there was no denying the heat flaring up between them. Both were scowling, both close to snapping at each other. Again, it was Álvaro who caved. He swallowed hard, tilting his chin so he could look Villa squarely in the eyes, trepidatious as he spoke.   
  
“He’s my best friend, Villa.”   
  
“Is he?”   
  
“Yes.” 

“Is that all he is?” 

“That's none of your business.”   
  
“Fair.  Do you trust him?”   
  
“I do.  I trust him with my life.”   
  
“And he trusts you.”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“With everything?”   
  
“With everything.”   
  
“And you’re fine with it.”   
  
“Of course I’m fine with it.”   
  
“Even the ugly stuff?  The painful stuff?  The dark stuff?”   
  
Álvaro’s mouth twitched a little, and then it hit him like a piano falling out of a tenth floor apartment window on moving day. Villa  _knew_. Villa knew about Raúl, knew his secret, knew his curse.  A look of panic flashed in Álvaro's eyes and he turned quickly to look to Raúl, for guidance, enlightenment, anything.  What was he supposed to do?  What was he supposed to say?  Was this some sort of fucked up test of his loyalty, to see if he'd betray his Chori somehow?  Well, fuck those guys.  He loved Chori.  He might not have always showed it, but he did, and they had no right to question his motivations or feelings or trustworthiness.  Besides, _he_ hadn't insinuated about it to anyone, let alone in a room full of people.  From his spot with Piqué, Raúl sent him a disquieted look, completely unaware of the conversation between the other two.  Álvaro gulped, turning back to face Villa.

“I’d take everything. Even ugly stuff.  Even dark stuff.” The younger man’s eyes had gone wider as he spoke, and Villa knew then that Álvaro understood the line of questioning. Maybe toast-for-brains wasn’t so dumb after all. “And I couldn't care less what you or Silva think about it.  I never asked for your blessing.  It'd be nice to have it, but gaining your personal seal of approval has never once factored into my decision making process for anything, let alone my relationship with Raúl.  So, while I appreciate the friendly concern, knock it off, yeah?  Go tell Silva that Raúl is in safe hands.  Tell him... Tell him that Raúl could be a monster, he could be a freak, he could be crazy or violent or damaged, or whatever and that wouldn't change a thing.  But he's not any of those things.  Nothing about him is dark or ugly or frightening.  Nothing about him is broken or damaged.  You're his friends.  You should already know that.”  
  
The Asturian looked him over again, searching for any signs of deception in him, any signs that he'd faltered during his speech and finding none. Arbeloa was weird as fuck, but then again, Chori wasn’t exactly normal either. So maybe that was the appeal. Maybe that’s why they were drawn to each other. One weirdo deserved another. Who better to romance an awkward werewolf than a nerd with a weird affinity for gryphons, right?  He still wasn't sure that he trusted Arbeloa entirely, but he'd at least gotten a better sense of the situation, and Arbeloa was nothing if not vocally devoted.  That had to count for something.  
  
“It’s like that?” Villa asked, jaw relaxing a little.  
  
Álvaro nodded, quiet, solemn. “It’s like that.”   
  
He closed his eyes and nodded, snorting as he tried to look smug.  “All right. Well. I think this is the part where I tell you if you break his heart, I’ll break your face.”   
  
“You can’t even reach my face.”  Álvaro said, simply, casting his eyes sideways toward Chori.  The expression on his face was almost one of longing, Villa noted.  “Besides, Raúl’s a big boy.  He doesn’t need anyone to defend his honor, not you and not even me.  It's tempting to jump in to save him, but some battles have to be fought all alone.”  
  
Villa considered that a moment, his thoughts interrupted by Del Bosque announcing that they were moving on to the next activity.  “All right, gentlemen.  It's time for trust falls.” 


	18. Chapter Seventeen

It all started out simply enough, with the men chatting and laughing and generally making it into an enjoyable affair as they lined up in disorderly lines and started with the trust falls. From his spot on the wall, Del Bosque observed them, grinning broadly as the pairs collapsed into each other’s arms and a warm, happy buzz of conversation filled the room. Whatever tension had been infecting them seemed to lift with this new activity, and for the first time all morning, just about everyone seemed to be in a good mood. Even Sergio, who’d been pining for Fernando from afar for the entirety of the morning had shelved his sour expression for an easy smile as he fell backwards into Xabi’s waiting arms.

“You’re heavier than you look,” the Basque snorted as he caught him, righting him onto his feet promptly.

“Are you implying that I’m fat, Xabi?” Sergio gasped in mock offense, spinning around to flash him a grin.

Xabi said nothing at first, trading spots with Sergio. Before he let himself fall, he finally answered, glancing back over his shoulder, “Not at all. You’re in excellent shape. Anyone can clearly see as much.”

Sergio smiled, pleased with the little ego boost. “Ah, so you have been checking me out. I knew it. You’re not nearly as sly as you think you are. I’m onto you, Xabi.”

The older man rolled his eyes, though Sergio couldn’t see. “Hn, well. It’s only that I find it rather puzzling.”

“What’s puzzling?” Sergio asked, a bit of the amusement in his voice sapping away.

Xabi shrugged, almost in perceptively, so casually that Sergio found it infuriating. “You’re not really Fernando’s type.” And with no other warning, he fell gracefully backwards.

Sergio barely caught him in time, Xabi landing in his arms solidly, almost bringing them both to the ground. “What the f—!!”

The Basque let out a dignified ‘oof’ as they both struggled back to their feet. Sergio’s eyes were wide with shock, and maybe just a trace of jealousy. Mostly shock though. Xabi was as unreadable as ever and he managed to look collected despite having nearly fallen ass first on the floor. He adjusted his clothes, looking Sergio over. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s the—? What the hell, Xabi!” Sergio hissed, catching the attention of some of the other fellows for a second or two. His eyes darted around quickly. He was a rather shameless man when it came to his wants, needs, and preferences, but he had a few shreds of privacy left. He didn’t want the entire team knowing all of his personal business, thank you very much. He quickly recovered though, letting out a loud laugh, to distract everyone. “I wasn’t ready, you big goof!”

Now, if there were somewhere on the planet a list of epithets which couldn’t possibly apply to Xabi Alonso, “you big goof” surely ranked somewhere near the top of it. As such, the red-haired man looked to Sergio with such utter coolness that it nearly made the Sevillan shiver. It wasn’t hatred, it wasn’t even disdain. It was a look which made Sergio feel at once both microscopic and entirely transparent. Undeterred, he reached out to jostle Xabi’s shoulder. “What are you talking about, Alonso? What do you mean?”

“It’s nothing, really.” Xabi said. “Only an observation.”

Sergio felt his jaw set and he watched the Basque glide around as if he owned the place and owed no further explanation for his statement, and he instantly hated him for it. The smug bastard. Just who the hell did Xabi Alonso think he was? And how dare he say anything to imply that he, Sergio Ramos, was not the one and only love of Fernando’s life? “All right, wise guy. Explain.”

Xabi’s lips curled slightly and he walked into position behind Sergio, arms open to catch him when he fell. “I’m not a gossip. I think I’ve already said too much. Surely I’ve overstepped—”

“Oh, please. Don’t play all coy now, asshole.” Sergio snapped. “If you’ve got something to say, say it!”

The Basque looked almost innocent then, arms still opened wide. He tsked softly, “Well, it’s just funny.” He paused. Sergio glared at him. Xabi smiled. “You mean he hasn’t told you about Daniel?”

The noise Sergio made echoed across the room. Santi craned his neck to look at them, taking his eyes off of Xavi and Iker as they performed a picture perfect trust fall. “They're being really loud,” Santi said, frowning a little. “Do you think something’s the matter?”

Indeed, both Iker and Xavi snapped to attention, each of them staring over to where Sergio and Xabi stood; the Basque unconcerned as he ever was while Sergio stood very close to him, pointing an accusatory finger in his face. Iker let out a sharp snort, completely unimpressed.

“Are you going to talk to him?” Xavi asked, crossing his arms over his chest as Santi stepped in line with the two captains, looking like a henchmen or minion of some kind.

“No,” Iker answered, folding his arms as well. Santi did, too.

“You’re not afraid he’ll get into trouble?” The Catalan glanced sideways at Iker, skepticism all over his face.

The keeper shrugged, “He’s a grown man. He doesn’t need me to babysit him.” Sure enough, Sergio's babysitter of choice trotted over to investigate. Better to let Fernando play peacekeeper between Sergio and Xabi. It's what Sergio'd been begging anyway. Iker was about to make another cutting remark when two different voices rose above the chatter. The trio looked over quickly to see Raúl and Gerard in each other’s faces, far closer and angrier than was necessary considering the generally jovial nature of the situation. “Those two on the other hand...”

“You almost dropped me, dumb ass!” Gerard barked.

“I did not!” Raúl insisted, looking irritated. Okay, he might have almost dropped him, but it was a close call and nothing to be so upset about.

“Pay attention! Stop staring at Villa and Arbeloa! What if I fell on my ass and broke my tailbone? What then?”

“Then I’d take your spot. And I’m not staring at them! Shut up!”

Xavi and Iker exchanged a look. Beside them, Santi shook his head disapprovingly. Before the captains could swoop in and intervene, Cesc and Silva took it upon themselves to handle the situation for it escalated any further. They each took hold of their best friend’s arm and pulled them in opposite directions, demonstrating handily that the bigger man in any given situation is often the shorter one.

“Deep breaths, Geri,” Cesc said, catching Iker’s gaze for a second or two then. They held that look for a moment, and his smile brightened before he and Gerard made eye contact. “He didn’t drop you.”

“He almost did.”

“And he also almost didn't. It was like a 50-50 chance and you both won. Isn't that awesome?”

“Whatever. He needs to get his act together,” Gerard insisted. “I feel like I’m the only person on this entire team who gives a shit about this tournament. You all are so far gone, so worried about your personal drama that you’ve basically forgotten that we’re here to play football, not get laid.”

The younger man frowned, pouted really, lower lip jutting out excessively. “I haven’t forgotten why we’re here.” And he wasn't getting laid. He very pointedly was not getting laid.

“Are you sure? Because the last time I checked, you were mooning over Iker. And Ramos is mooning over Torres. And Chori’s mooning over… I don’t even want to know who he’s mooning over, to be honest, but I swear to God if it’s Villa I might puke. Anyways, listen to me, Cesc. I’m saying it’s out of control. Me. I’m saying that. Do you know how bad it must be if I am the voice of reason?”

“You sound like Xavi,” Cesc mumbled, feeling properly scolded.

“Yeah, well.” Geri huffed. “Would you rather hear this from him or from me?”

“From you.”

“Okay. Listen to me then. Forget about Casillas. Forget about all of this nonsense. We have a friendly to win before we go to South Africa. Focus on that.” He looked at Cesc, pleading with those big blue eyes. “At least say you’ll try.”

Cesc sighed and nodded. When had he ever really been able to say no to Geri? Basically never. And if Geri was tired of the relationship drama, then he’d do his part to tone it all down. Not that he wasn’t focused on the matches ahead, but still. He’d rather appease Geri than piss him off further.

Silva, meanwhile, was doing his part to smooth Raúl’s ruffled feathers, listening to the older man unleash a muttered rant under his breath. Truthfully, he hadn’t been paying close attention to Raúl’s complaints until it became obvious that some of his outrage was directed at Silva “… and none of this would even be an issue if you’d call off your attack dog!”

The Canarian blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Raúl scowled at him.

“My ‘attack dog’?”

“I mean Villa.”

Silva looked confused. “He’s not my… what are you even talking about, Chori?”

“I’m talking about him getting all up in Álvaro’s face like that. I know what he’s trying to do. I’m on to him. I’m on to the both of you.”

“Have you lost your mind, Chori? David hasn’t done anything to Álvaro.” That might have been downplaying things a little, but allowing Villa to investigate Arbeloa hardly counted as an attack. Silva was about to say as much when he recalled the animosity which had been sparking throughout the room not ten minutes prior. Villa could be an intimidating figure when it suited him (which was most of the time, if Silva was being honest.) Maybe Raúl’s read hadn’t been so far off base. He looked over at Villa and Álvaro then. They both seemed to have calmed down, flaring tempers extinguished in favor of simply completing the task at hand. For all the bluster and glaring they’d engaged in, the men were quiet and paying their lovers no mind. In fact, now that Piqué and Albiol’s little spat had been dealt with, the rest of the team had gone back to their game and weren’t paying any attention to Raúl and Silva at all.

“I know you’re mad at me, David.” Raúl said softly from Silva’s side. He too was watching Villa and Arbeloa, voice a bit pitiful. “I know you think I was stupid to tell him.”

“I don’t think you’re stupid,” Silva turned to look at him, to nip that train of thought in the bud. “I’ve never thought that. Never.”

Chori’s lips twisted into a thin line, a half a smile, as if he’d accepted that answer but didn’t quite believe it. It hurt Silva, like a tiny dagger in his heart. “I had to tell him. It felt wrong to keep it from him. I want him. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want him. And I want him to have all of me.”

Just then, as if somehow he realized he was being talked about, Álvaro looked over at them.  He grinned, positively beamed, and as he did, Chori’s small smile melted instantly into a dopey, lovesick grin.

Was he wrong to feel so afraid?  Had he crossed a line somehow and begun wading into a sea of hypocrisy?  He'd told David.  He'd told him everything.  He'd been so scared to tell him, so utterly afraid he'd wind up rejected and broken, but he couldn't go on another moment without getting it all off his chest.  He'd wanted David to take him as he was, to take all of him, good, bad, and ugly, and love him just the same as he always had.  Silva wanted acceptance.  And he got that from David.  He got that from Raúl, too.  And if Raúl wanted Álvaro, and Álvaro likewise wanted him, then who the hell was David Silva to object?  He didn't understand the dynamics of Raúl and Álvaro's relationship, but then again, he'd been in the dark for months.  Maybe they were super functional and completely romantic.  Or maybe they weren't that, at all.  Either way, he figured he owed it to Raúl to try to be happy and supportive.  They were friends and they were teammates, and beyond that, Silva liked to think they more or less made up a wolf pack of two.

Still, it hadn't been a complete waste to let Villa sniff around a bit.  At the very least, the morning session was proof positive that Álvaro was intimidated by Villa.  That might be useful information someday.  Maybe.

Silva tilted his head, watching Chori watching Álvaro. “I know. I get it. I get it now.” And he did. Maybe he’d been blind before. He must have been, if he’d somehow missed the way Raúl looked at Álvaro. It wasn’t an unfamiliar look either. It was a look that Silva had never thought to question before, never paused to consider until he’d seen Álvaro return it the night before. He almost felt voyeuristic, even just thinking about it, and standing beside Chori, he felt like he’d unwittingly interrupted something very personal.

His moment of contemplation was interrupted by his own boyfriend, though. Villa caught his eyes, raising his brows a little before unleashing a toothy smile. Silva couldn’t help but smile back, biting his lower lip as he watched Villa get into position for a trust fall into Arbeloa’s arms. Silva and Raúl stood, watching and waiting when something odd happened. Villa’s face contorted. Or rather, it went completely slack. His eyes drooped shut. He wobbled, clearly off balance, and then he fell. Except instead of falling backwards and into the safety of Álvaro’s waiting embrace (and before anyone else could react in time to catch him) Villa fell forward and face-planted on the ground with a heavy, horrifying thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the trust falls? [They](http://33.media.tumblr.com/a177a9e54f7e0ce330718d910d057397/tumblr_nnesd5iaiQ1rcz6r6o1_400.gif) [are](http://31.media.tumblr.com/85400321a9af12ff0a24ff410ddb9374/tumblr_nnesd5iaiQ1rcz6r6o2_400.gif) [an](http://33.media.tumblr.com/9d41621637446078d7a7fa026c25120f/tumblr_nnesd5iaiQ1rcz6r6o5_400.gif) [actual](http://33.media.tumblr.com/dd9a3f7964551dd5c8632c9552df5535/tumblr_nnesd5iaiQ1rcz6r6o3_400.gif) [thing](http://38.media.tumblr.com/fc8b05072e545d54384acd191567c2f0/tumblr_nnesd5iaiQ1rcz6r6o4_400.gif) that happened. Red hands, too. I couldn't let the opportunity pass me by. ;)


	19. Chapter Eighteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies on going so long between chapters! My laptop needed repairing so I was without it for a few days, and then there was a bunch of stupidity on Tumblr the other night and I got distracted from editing, which this chapter desperately needed. This was the hardest chapter for me to write so far, and I'm a little... meh on how it turned out. Hopefully it all flows nicely!
> 
> Anyways, thank you all for your patience, it definitely won’t be as long a wait for the next chapter! <3

“Hey, guys. What’s going on?” Fernando asked as he trotted over to Xabi and Sergio, his presence immediately sending waves of calm over them. Sergio snapped to attention, like a scolded puppy caught barking at the cat. Xabi, meanwhile, didn’t seem bothered at all. Fernando eyed the two of them suspiciously for a moment before giving half a smile. “Sergio, what’s the matter? You look like you’re about to kill someone.”

“Very good, Fer. You’re so observant.” Sergio couldn’t help but pout at him a little before glaring at the Basque again.

Fernando laughed, trying to ease the tension. “W-what? Why?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Xabi said flatly. “We were just talking and the conversation took an unexpected turn.”

The blonde’s eyes narrowed slightly, a sinking feeling bubbling in the pit of his stomach. He looked to Xabi first, searching his expression for some shred of sympathy, some indication that they were friends. They were friends, weren’t they? Not finding the desired answers in Xabi’s impassive expression, he looked to Sergio, and let himself give a nervous smile. The defender looked back at him, eyes colder than usual, colder than Fernando had ever seen them before. It was so unlike Sergio to look that way, Fernando was immediately unsettled. He flinched a little and tried not to let it show. “What were you talking about?”

“Nothing important, Fer—” Xabi began.

“We were talking about _Daniel_.” Sergio cut him off. The way he said the name made it sound toxic, like he might be sick.

Fernando’s heart stopped, just for a second or two. He froze, face fixed with a look of guilt. Or maybe it was just surprise at the unexpected topic of conversation. There was nothing going on between him and Daniel. Nothing of substance, at least. They were friends, very good, very _close_ friends, and whatever Xabi had insinuated was likely a half-truth or a gross exaggeration. Besides, it wasn't as if Xabi even knew anything anyway. Or rather he probably didn't. Or shouldn't. Not unless someone had opened their big mouth about certain things that definitely were not Xabi's business. Which, in all likelihood was probably exactly what had happened. Fernando wasn't dumb. He could tell he'd been ratted out and he silently added his club captain to his list of people never to trust with personal information again.

Still, he had nothing to be ashamed of, even as he stared helplessly into Sergio's eyes. He said nothing, just swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing as Sergio gave him a look. It was a look Fernando had never seen from him before and he instantly felt as if he’d been knocked down a peg or two. He felt awful. He felt lower than the scum of the earth. And the funny thing was, he hadn’t done anything at all to deserve it.

“What about him?” He asked, managing at last to find his voice. His eyes darted between the pair of them again, silently pleading with Sergio to stay calm, to not punch anyone while trying to simultaneously signal to Xabi that he was going to skin him alive for this totally unfair and uncalled for intrusion. The midfielder raised his eyebrows in the most infuriating way, giving Fernando a look he couldn’t quite decipher. Clearly Xabi had something up his sleeve, and whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. He was crafty, even on his worst days, and without the usual suspect around to reel him he was probably bored. That was a potentially catastrophic combination. Fernando refused to panic though. He had nothing to hide. Well, pretty much nothing.

“I could ask you the same thing. What about him, Nando. What about Daniel.” Sergio answered. This time though, the anger had disappeared from his voice. Instead he sounded wounded. It wasn’t completely obvious, but Fernando recognized it. Fernando knew. Sergio was in pain.

“Xabi?” He said, ignoring Sergio and his sad puppy eyes for a moment. His own emotions (hurt, disappointment, _betrayal_ ) plainly written all over his face, he pressed on. “What did you do, Xabi? What are you doing?”

The Basque didn’t falter, though he did stutter a little. “I haven’t done anything. I only mentioned his name.”

Fernando was about to press him further, right there in front of Sergio and the world, or at least lead them to a point where a temporary truce could be called and the discussion tabled for later, when out of the corner of his eye he saw someone had fallen and hit the floor and hadn’t gotten back up. Xabi and Sergio saw it too, and all three of them forgot what they were doing as they realized Villa was face-down on the floor in a lifeless heap.

“Holy—!” Raúl cried, staggering over to Álvaro, who was standing over him in complete and utter shock. A step behind him was Silva, white as a ghost, breath rising quickly in his chest as he grabbed Raúl’s arm. “Come on, man! Get up! You’re freaking us out!”

Villa just laid there, totally unresponsive.

The Valencian looked back to his lover, accusation in his voice. “What happened! Varo!”

Del Bosque approached them then, concern woven into his worn features. “What’s the matter? Why’s he on the floor? Is he hurt?”

“I don’t know!” Álvaro stammered, dropped down on his knees to check on Villa himself. “Get a medic! Someone! I think he’s unconscious!”

Everyone who wasn’t paying attention before that moment certainly was after that. All other conversation ceased as the medical staff were summoned, and in the midst of the confusion Silva somehow ended up on the ground at Villa’s side, pressing his fingers frantically to Villa's throat, searching for a pulse. He could barely breathe himself, but upon examining Villa, he was at least satisfied that the older man was still alive and hadn’t just dropped dead. That was good. That was okay.

“David?” He whispered, letting his fingers linger over the older man’s pulse for a second or two before he stroked Villa’s jaw. He was scared out of his mind, hands trembling as he touched his lover’s face, the horrible notion that something might be wrong with him, that Villa might truly be sick or hurt settling in and refusing to go. What would he do without Villa? Sure, he was an independent person, capable of living his own life and making his own decisions and so on, but David and David were a team, dammit. They’d promised each other that. They'd bared their souls to each other, knew the ins and outs of one another's pasts and presents, and with all of that weight they'd still promised to be part of each other's futures. In the three years they'd been together, their paths had become so entwined, he almost couldn't bear the thought of even trying to make it on his own, pathetic as it seemed. Villa couldn’t bail on Silva and leave him to navigate the world on his own. That wasn’t part of their deal.

God, why weren’t they alone so he could say as much to him? Why did there have to be so many people witnessing his strung out desperation as he shook Villa’s shoulders. They probably all thought he was some stupid, codependent freak, kneeling over him, begging him, pleading with him to wake up until the physios came and brushed him aside. He stood there, mere feet away as medics with white latex gloves descended on Villa and formed a human barrier to keep prying eyes away. Nearby, Álvaro stood with Chori, whispering something to him. In the commotion, Silva was left standing alone, empty, frightened, and numb.

Del Bosque gave the order for the team to head out into the hallway, to give the medical team space. “We’ll head out to the pitch for some drills momentarily. Let’s take five and then regroup.”

The men mulled around, dispersing somewhat, the entire hallway abuzz with worry over Villa and whatever medical situation was unfolding behind closed doors. Silva was noticeably distraught, skin still paler than it ought to be. He stared at the doors, could have bored holes into them if he’d had laser vision, so intense was his gaze. And so engrossed was he in his staring that he didn’t immediately notice that there was someone standing right beside him until he felt an arm drape around his shoulder.

“Hey,” Cesc said quietly, leaning in. “It’s gonna be okay. He’s just fine.”

Silva wanted to say something snippy or cruel, but instead he slowly turned to face Cesc, lips set into a deep frown. His anger disappeared immediately though, once he was face to face with Cesc, who even in the face of this strange moment of uncertainty maintained his optimism somehow. Cesc smiled then, looking younger and more sweet than he had any right to be, and he gave Silva’s shoulder a squeeze. Silva let himself breathe freely for a moment, and while he said nothing out loud, he was inwardly grateful for Cesc’s intervention.

A medic popped her head out into the hallway and gestured for Del Bosque and a few of the other staff members to join them. Silva bit his lip as he anxiously watched them disappear, heart racing as he prayed silently for Villa to walk out that door and make some stupid quip about Arbeloa being too slow to catch him or something. God, he’d give anything to hear that. He’d witnessed injuries before, seen all sorts of medical emergencies in his life time, but there was something so weird and unnerving about watching Villa collapse so suddenly. It touched a nerve, then toyed with it until Silva was so on edge he was internally screaming.

Instead, Del Bosque emerged a minute later and announced that Villa was unwell and would be taken to a hospital. The noise level jumped, with the men riled up, confused and worried and unnerved by it all.

“What’s wrong with him?” Iker asked for the group, using his most level, captainy voice. “Is he all right?”

“That’s to be determine,” their coach said, sounding rather grave. “Now please, gentlemen, I’d like you to head out to the pitch. We’ll continue our training outside in five minutes. Go on.” Del Bosque disappeared back into the room and shut the door, leaving the men

Though it took a moment or two for most of them to comply, the team started to make their way outside until only Silva (and Cesc) remained.

“Come on,” Cesc said, arm still slung over the Canarian’s shoulder. “They’ll take good care of him.”

“No,” Silva shook his head. “I’m going with him. I have to go with him.”

The Catalan gave a small laugh of surprise, dark eyes growing large as he realized Silva was serious. He slinked around Silva so that they were face to face. “But you can’t! What about training? And the match?”

“I probably won’t get to play anyway,” he insisted, absolutely determined. “I have to—”

“You have to stay here, David.”

Both Cesc and Silva turned their heads sharply to see Villa standing in the doorway, steadied by one of the medics. He seemed out of sorts still, a strange pallor to his complexion. He looked generally unwell, and the goose egg on his forehead surely didn’t help things. Silva’s expression softened and he stepped toward his lover, wanting to examine him more closely, but the medic put up a gentle yet commanding hand to stop him coming any nearer. “Please give us some room.”

Silva looked to Villa then, their eyes meeting. He wanted to put his arms around Villa, hold him, kiss him, forget himself and their surroundings, forget the rest of the world for a moment spent comforting him and being comforted by him. But he didn’t make a move. He stayed still, willing Villa to miraculously feel well enough to stay, forget the hospital and all. “David?”

“I need to lie down.” Villa said, swaying slightly against the medic, who held him in place. “You need to stay here and train. Don’t argue with me, puppy. Just do it.”

From his spot a pace or two behind Silva, Cesc raised his eyebrows.

“But, I—”

“David.”

“I have my phone,” Villa said, as if that ended the debate. “Don’t worry. Just… do you.”

Silva still didn’t move, except his hands, which were balling into tight fists. He was bottled up, wanted to snap at the physio and at Villa, to take his worry and frustration out on someone, anyone. Then, as if on cue, Cesc was at his side again, speaking to Villa with an atypical amount of maturity. “You get some rest and feel better. Silva and I will room together tonight.”

Villa would have scoffed at that, except he still felt woozy. So instead he gave a faint smile that Cesc interpreted as one of thanks, before looking back to Silva. “I’ll text you.”

Dumbfounded, Silva nodded, watching as the medic escorted Villa away.

“We should get outside,” Cesc said, nudging Silva in the rib before heading toward where the rest of the team was gathering for practice. “Come on, before Xavi blows a gasket.”

Silva still didn’t move right away, hesitating slightly as he trotted to keep up with the younger man. He was so anxious, so uneasy. Even seeing Villa upright and talking had done very little to convince him that all would be well. After all, he’d collapsed like a rag doll. That wasn’t okay. That wasn’t okay at all. He had more questions than answers, even if Villa had promised to text him. Also, how the hell was he supposed to carry on with training after all of this? His head definitely wasn’t in the game.

Cesc seemed to pick up on that, glancing over to him again. “Hey,” he said, just before they stepped out onto the pitch. “I meant what I said before, to Villa. I’ll stay with you tonight.”

The Canarian wanted to frown, to decline the offer, but there was something so sincere in Cesc’s expression that he just didn’t have the heart to say no. He didn’t like feeling pitied anymore than he liked anything else which had gone down that morning. But short of breaking down to Cesc and confiding that the reason he was so dismayed over the situation was that he and Villa had been romantically involved for the past couple years, there wasn’t much he could do besides putting his best foot forward and hoping Villa would text him back as soon as he could.

And beyond that, it was Cesc making the overtures. Cesc was a good kid. Silva liked Cesc. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to spend an evening with him. He could probably use a distraction himself, if the previous evening’s toast was any indication. So Silva smiled and nodded. “All right. If it’s okay with Del Bosque to switch up.”

Cesc gave Silva a toothy grin, as if to say ‘leave it to me, I’ll take care of it’ and he sprinted off to join the other midfielders in their smaller training group. Silva ran quickly behind him, and did his very best to clear his mind of all thoughts unrelated to the smell of freshly cut grass, proper passing positioning, and the way the ball felt so natural against his instep. If there was one cure for a troubled mind, it was life on the pitch, and Silva was ready to overmedicate himself on it.

 

—

 

As the training session wound down, Del Bosque called the team to join him indoors again. “I know you’re all concerned over David Villa’s condition after this morning’s incident.” Despite being tired from the drills, they all perked up to listen. “We haven’t received any word yet as to his condition, but our team assures me that he is receiving the best possible care at the hospital. There’s no need for any of you to worry about him right now. I need you all to remain focused on what’s to come. Tomorrow will be a trial run before we depart for South Africa. Let’s not squander this opportunity to succeed.”

The men nodded but were silent, all except Cesc, who cleared his throat. Two dozen sets of eyes settled on him then. “Excuse me, Mister?”

“Yes?”

“I was just thinking…”

“Oh my god no…” Xavi breathed, just loud enough for those closest to him to hear. He tensed, ready to go into damage control mode, in case Cesc said something supremely dense and embarrassed them all.

“After this morning, I think it might be a good idea for someone to stay with Silva tonight.”

Xavi, braced for impact, let out a slow breath. Okay, that wasn’t so bad. Hm…

Cesc continued, looking to Silva briefly. “If it’s all right with your, sir, I volunteer to stay in his room tonight.”

The coach thought it over for a moment, then nodded. “Good thinking Fàbregas,” Del Bosque said, paternal pride on his aging face. “Yes, you should room with Silva. It will be good to mix things up a bit.” He nodded approvingly as an idea took root in his head. “As a matter of fact, let’s shuffle everyone tonight. You lot always manage room with the same people again and again. It will be better for the team this way.”

The room was pretty well split as to whether or not they thought it was a fair idea or not. Sergio seemed highly inclined to swap roommates, whereas Xabi looked quite put upon. He liked rooming with Fernando. Fernando was respectful. He wore headphones when he listened to music and he didn’t badger him with questions about his personal life (not because he already knew the answers either, but because he wasn’t an interfering jerk.) Of course, their little _conversation_ earlier in the morning could complicate matters, but Xabi lived in fear of no man's retribution, not even Fernando Torres.

As Del Bosque deliberated, Gerard made his way to Cesc’s side. “What’s this all about?” he asked, ignoring Silva while looming over him with an unintentional air of menace. Truthfully, Geri was a little miffed. Didn’t Cesc like rooming with him? It wasn’t like they got to spend that much time together anyway. They could’ve spent it with each other, having fun and not arguing, but instead Cesc would be holed up with Silva.

“What?” Cesc blinked at him as if he were the simplest person in the room. “He’s shaken up over what happened earlier. I’m trying to be a good friend.”

“So let Chori handle him,” Geri muttered.

“I can hear you, you know.” Silva said, patently annoyed.

“It’s just for the night, Geri,” Cesc almost rolled his eyes. “Quit acting so jealous.”

Gerard was about to say something loud and obnoxious when Del Bosque called them to attention yet again. The coach went through the men and began to arbitrarily reassign the rooms, regardless of where people had been assigned the night before. Iker and Capdevila. Xavi and Mata. Albiol and Arbeloa. Xabi and Fernando…

Sergio wanted to cry out in protest! Xabi and Fernando were _already_ rooming together! That wasn’t fair! That wasn’t fair at all! He might've been in a mood over Fernando, but he still wanted to room with him! He was about to say as much when his worst nightmare became a reality.

“And Ramos will be rooming with Piqué tonight,” The coach proclaimed, dusting his hands ceremoniously. “Alright, you’re all dismissed for the night. But remember we have curfew and there’s to be no shenanigans this evening. It’s a match day tomorrow, friendly or not, and I expect you all to get a sufficient amount of rest tonight.”

Sergio’s face went pale as Del Bosque left the men, and he turned to give Iker a pleading look, an expression that said ‘save me’. At that precise moment, Gerard frantically turned to give Xavi the exact same desperate face, loping over to the smaller man to beg him to do something. Both captains managed to mildly shrug, because what were they going to do? Undermine del Bosque’s orders? Blatantly play favorites when everyone else had to grin and bear it?

Iker patted Sergio’s shoulder comfortingly. Sergio leaned into him, refusing to let his friend escape his clutches so easily. “You’ll be fine. It’s just for one night.”

“Iker, I hate him,” he hissed into Iker’s ear.

“You can hate him again after the tournament. Hell, you can hate him tomorrow. But tonight he’s your roommate.” The captain pulled away from Sergio, a certain sternness to his voice. Sergio loathed being on the receiving end of that tone. It always made him feel like a child.

“Yes, Iker.”

“That’s better. Now go get packed. I’ll be up in a few minutes.” Iker's lips curved into a ghost of a smile as Sergio trudged away. He turned then to survey the room, masking his attempts to find one specific person amidst the small crowd of men with a disapproving scowl. After the day they'd had, no one could blame him for looking unhappy, but he couldn't help but long for a shared moment with Cesc, anything that could make him smile again.


	20. Chapter Nineteen

As the team filed out, Iker found himself instinctively seeking Cesc out. He stayed in place, looking around the room while playing with his gloves as the other men meandered and chatted and the room slowly emptied. He wasn’t certain that Cesc would linger, but waiting out the crowd would give him a better chance of snagging him, or at least making eye contact.

After a minute or so though, Iker had thoroughly lost Cesc in the small but boisterous crowd and he had to admit to himself that he was a little bit disappointed. Then, practically out of nowhere, the young Catalan resurfaced on the opposite side of the room, looking around like he was completely lost. Iker couldn’t help it if his face lit up a little. Cesc had that strange effect on him, made his pulse skip around erratically and his breath catch in his throat.

It took him a second or two, but Iker regained his casual form, adopting his signature unamused expression, brows knit into a perfectly annoyed scowl as the young man approached him.

“Hey,” Cesc said at last, a goofy smile on his face. Iker couldn’t honestly tell if he was smiling because he was nervous or if he was smiling because he had all the confidence in the world. Iker absolutely adored that stupid smile. “Hey, Iker. I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk."

Iker wasn’t sure how he should respond. What was he meant to say to a grin like that? Hello seemed too stuffy. Hi too casual. Maybe he could have parroted Cesc’s greeting and tell him the truth, that he’d been hoping to talk to Cesc for a while, too. Instead, he managed to pick the dullest reply he could, somehow managing to simultaneously look uninterested and concerned. It was quite a feat, even for Iker. “Fàbregas. What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

For his part, Cesc seemed outwardly unfazed, scratching at his nose as he fidgeted a little. Inwardly he was kicking himself, though. Fàbregas? Really? Weren’t they past that sort of formality by now? Of course they were! Iker hadn’t called him anything but Cesc in ages, so that new twist was especially jarring. But Cesc remained resolved to press ahead. This was his chance to talk to Iker, to get his desperately needed fix, and he wasn’t about to squander the moment by being anxious about it.

“Huh? Oh, no, nothing’s wrong. I just… it’s been so long since we had the chance to talk, you know? And I was just thinking…” His eyes met Iker’s and htrailed off, suddenly nervous despite his resolve. What the hell was he doing, droning on like an idiot when Iker was clearly not interested and clearly had other important things to do. Very suddenly, Cesc appeared small and insecure, mumbling the last bit, “Before I head back to England I was thinking we could talk. You know, just to catch up."

Meanwhile Iker just stared at Cesc, unsure what to make of the kid. This was becoming a common refrain for him, wasn’t it? Cesc said or did something surprising, Iker stood there stupidly wondering what he should do. As a goalkeeper, he was finding his lack of swift reaction particularly alarming. Quickly though he regained his senses and gave a sharp nod in response. Cesc wanted to talk, to catch up, and Iker decided that he would do anything he could to see Cesc’s foolish little smile again. He’d rather they talk about something more meaningful than Arsenal or the English weather, but if that’s what Cesc wanted to talk about, Iker would gladly oblige. So he smiled himself, eyes crinkling with real warmth and he nodded once again, “I’d like that, Cesc. We could have breakfast together tomorrow. I’ll save you a seat.”

Cesc let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Yeah? But won’t Sergio mind? You always eat together."

Iker laughed at that, “I wouldn’t worry about Sergio finding someone to eat breakfast with. He’s never hurting for a meal partner.”

“I guess that’s true,” Cesc said, cracking a smile again.

A thought occurred to Iker then, good captain that he was. “By the way, you did a good thing volunteering to room with Silva tonight.”

The younger man’s expression seemed to falter a little. He'd actually completely forgotten all about the rooming situation, he’d been so lost in the enchanting darkness of Iker’s eyes. “Huh? Oh, oh yeah! It’s nothing, Iker, really. He just needed a little cheering up, that’s all.”

“Hn, well, you’re good at cheering people up, Cesc. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job of that tonight.” He meant it, too. Iker thought back to the first time he’d met Cesc. He was scrawny and so young, with all those wild dark curls and that impish little smirk. Iker just knew he was only feigning naïveté and innocence but he could never quite put his finger on why it was. He’d seen something wicked in those big brown eyes, something which immediately set him on edge and set off all the warning bells in his head. Not the bad kind of warning bells, though. More like the sexy kind. And that realization made Iker even more uncomfortable.

Dealing with Cesc wasn’t like dealing with Sergio. Sergio seemed to plow into situations without thinking, hoping for the best with his most pleasing smile well in place. Cesc wasn’t like Sergio at all. He was an airhead, sure – no one could say the inane things he did or eat that many donuts with sprinkles without being a little flighty. But there was calculation there, too. Cesc understood people. He knew what they needed and he told them what they wanted to hear. In some ways that made Cesc the ideal man to play confidante and consoler. In other ways… well, Iker could certainly recognize just how dangerous that tendency could be, if only Cesc were self-aware enough to see it himself. Iker was sure he’d never met anyone so oblivious to their own appeal in his entire life. Sometimes it seemed like Cesc was trying to be awkward or difficult, like it was part of some weird game or something. But Iker knew better. Cesc didn’t mean to be provocative. He was just being himself, for better or for worse. He couldn’t change how the world reacted to him any more than Iker could fully suppress his own burgeoning crush on the kid.

At that moment, Cesc looked so demure and shy, Iker was almost convinced he could see a faint blush spread across his cheeks. If he weren’t so smitten, Iker would have rolled his eyes. Instead he found the kid too damn charming.

“I do my best,” Cesc said as he nibbled on his bottom lip. “And I’d do it for anyone here.”

“I know,” Iker agreed, his expression matching Cesc’s. “It’s the right thing to do, and if you hadn’t offered, I would have.”

At that, the younger man frowned, a wave of possession swelling up and threatening to take hold of him. Was this for real? Iker would want to room with Silva? What the hell? Of course it was the nice thing to do, but that didn’t mean the team captain should have to sleep in a bed mere inches away from the notoriously exotic David Silva. Silva had a way of making the most prickly men into loyal puppies. Cesc saw what happened to Villa. Villa was whipped, even if he and Silva weren’t actually sleeping together (which was a topic of hot debate among the rest of the team, Cesc noted to himself.) He wasn’t about to let that happen to Iker. He was a damn saint, he didn’t need to be led into a den of temptation. “Then it’s a good thing I’m here, right?”

Iker didn’t catch Cesc’s frown. He was busy trying to sort out his own mess of feelings. The seductive qualities of David Silva hadn’t even factored into Iker’s thoughts. “Yes. It is good you’re here, Cesc.” He smiled, almost fondly, still in team captain mode. “I think you should ask Silva to join us at breakfast tomorrow. I bet he’d like that.”

“Yeah. I bet he would.” Jaw clenched, Cesc turned away from Iker then, giving him a quick wave. “See you tomorrow,” he said, back still turned to him. He couldn’t believe Iker was so insistent on looking after Silva, like he was some sort of infant in need of protecting and coddling. It was unreal, not to mention totally unfair. Why didn’t Iker fuss over Cesc, when Cesc clearly had a better physique and a better sense of humor and was totally into him and everything? Although, maybe it was time for another haircut...

“Sure. Tomorrow.” Iker nodded, brows knit as he watched Cesc head for the door. He still wasn’t sure what exactly was off about Cesc just then, but he was looking forward to talking over breakfast. And while he’d prefer a chance to get to talk to Cesc alone, he was glad that the younger man was looking after Silva. The Canarian looked so upset when Villa took ill, it would only benefit the team if they took the initiative and took care of him. That’s what teammates were for. It was nice that Cesc understood that no matter what, personal matters would take a backseat to the team.

 

—

 

Fernando slammed the door behind him as he stomped into the hotel room. From across the room, Xabi looked up from his bag, raising an eyebrow. “Was that really necessary?” The Basque asked, playing with his wristwatch.

“Yes. Now can you please tell me what the hell that was all about?”

Xabi continued to busy himself with the contents of his suitcase. “What was what all about?”

Fernando growled, marching over to him. “You’re way too smart to play this dumb, you know. No one ever believes you. So stop it.” Xabi glanced up, lips quirking almost inperceptively. “Why did you tell him about Daniel? What were you thinking?”

“I was only making conversation.”

“Stop saying that!”

“It’s true.”

“You’re such a liar! If you wanted to make conversation, you could’ve talked about the weather. Or books or something.” Xabi snorted, because really? Fernando glared. “You didn’t have to tell him about Dan.”

“Ah,” the Basque said cryptically.

“It’s none of your business, Xabi.” He insisted, having more or less cornered him now, between the bed and the wall. “You don’t have the right to interfere.”

Xabi didn’t say anything, opting instead to let Fernando continue his tirade.

“And besides, I haven’t done anything wrong. So what if I have friends? So what if I like to hang out with Dan? I’m allowed to, aren’t I? And… and… I’m allowed to hang out with Sergio too. People are allowed to like me. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Of course not.”

“I can spend time with whoever I want to.”

“Of course you can.”

“And there’s no reason to feel guilty about it.”

“You're right.  There's no reason to feel guilty at all.”

“It’s not like I’m leading anyone on or— ” A-ha. There it was. Right there in the open, words hanging in the air between them like they were tangible, floating things. Fernando immediately regretted saying them, wished he could fumble for those words and take them back, not because they weren’t true, but because it was embarrassing. Somehow, that bastard Xabi had tricked him into calling himself out. How did he even do that? Fernando looked to Xabi, looking so mild and unassuming and so damn smug. It made him so angry, to fall into a trap so easily. “I’m not leading anyone on.” He said it again, hoping it sounded believable this time.

“Which is why there’s no problem with talking about Dan. He’s a good friend of yours, Fernando. It’s only natural that Sergio should want to get to know him.” Xabi went back to arranging his suitcase. With a sudden burst of fury, Fernando slapped the top down onto Xabi’s hands. Since it was a soft case though, it was more for dramatic effect than anything else.  Xabi only looked annoyed in response.

“He didn’t even know about Dan until you told him!”

“You’re right. He didn’t.”

“He doesn’t need to know about him.”

“Why not? Isn’t Daniel important to you?”

“Obviously.  He's my best friend.”

“So why doesn’t Sergio even know he exists?”

“Because…” Fernando shut his mouth, guilt hitting him like a freighter. No, Sergio didn’t know about Dan.  But it wasn’t as if he was hiding anything. He had nothing to hide, nothing at all. Dan was his friend, nothing more. Sure, they spent an extraordinary amount of time together, always laughing and smiling. There was no need for pretension, no need to impress him. When he was with Dan, he felt like he could relax, be himself. That didn’t mean anything was going on between them though. That didn’t mean he was interested in Dan in a romantic sense. It just meant they were friends. Very good friends who texted each other a lot. Very good friends who joined each other for dinner three or four nights a week. Maybe once he’d had the fleeting thought. Maybe twice he’d considered it. But he’d never pursued anything. Nothing serious, at least.  A drunken kiss that meant nothing, an embrace or two that went on too long, but that was all.  He didn't do that with anyone else, only with Daniel.  That was why they were best friends.  There was nothing untoward about any of it.

But then why did he feel like he’d done something wrong? He’d always been infatuated with Sergio, always. From the moment they met, they’d teased and flirted with each other. Fernando had always let Sergio take the lead, let him take charge of their flirtation, but he’d enjoyed every moment of it. He adored Sergio, simply adored him, and he basked in his attention, flourished in it like a flower in the sun. Sergio was the sun in Fernando’s universe and Fernando was… well, he could be a minor planetoid for all he cared so long as he could enjoy the heat and light radiating from him. Anyone could see how they fed off each other’s energy. Anyone with eyes, anyway.  When he was around Sergio, the rest of the world fell away.  Nothing else mattered, no one else even registered.  He liked that feeling, that they were the only two people in the whole universe.  It sometimes felt like an addiction, like Sergio was his drug.  

Fernando stood there stupidly for a few seconds before Xabi carefully pushed past him to walk to the other side of the room. “Has it ever occurred to you that you’re leading him on?” Xabi asked.

The younger man blinked, stunned for a moment. “Huh?”

Xabi snorted, catching his reflection in the mirror. He paused to fix his hair, which already looked perfect. “You really don’t have a clue.”

Fernando furrowed his brows. “What are you talking about?”

“You don’t think you’re leading him on.”

“Who?”

Xabi clicked his tongue. “The fact that you’re asking me _who_ is rather telling, Fernando.” Nando sputtered, gasping for something to say and coming up short. “You ought to resolve a few things, otherwise someone’s going to get hurt.”

Someone like Xabi Alonso, Fernando thought. He was seeing red, blindsided really. But when he took a second to pause, to breathe, to think it all over, the truth was ready to sucker punch him. Had he been leading Daniel on all that time? Was that even possible? It wasn’t his fault if Daniel had gotten the wrong impression… not that he didn’t find him attractive and wouldn’t possibly pursue something serious with him if not for the existence of Sergio in the universe. Once or twice he’d amusedly thought of Daniel as ‘Plan B’, in case things didn’t work out between him and Sergio. Now, being called out on it, he realized that that was pretty unfair. You can’t treat your back-up plan like they’re your one and only, otherwise they might come to believe it.

All of the realization and internal horror was written plainly on Fernando’s face. Xabi caught a glimpse of it in the mirror and he turned around to face him again. “Dan is my friend too, you know.”

“I know he is.”

“And I don’t want to see him hurt.”

“I know, Xabi.”

“I know how you are with Sergio. I’ve watched you two for years. You’re a different person when you’re with him.”

Fernando frowned, only then realizing that he was gnawing on his lip. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that when you’re with him, you seem to forget about the rest of us.”

Nando noted something distant, something almost regretful in Xabi’s voice. It had him on edge all over again. “But I don’t. I don’t forget my friends. I don’t forget the people who matter to me.”

Xabi turned back to the mirror, not admiring himself so much as just staring into the glass. “Does Dan know about Sergio?”

“Yes. I tell him everything.” He answered without hesitation, because it was true. He could tell Daniel everything, anything, whatever silly thoughts entered his head, anything he wanted to say he could say.

“Does he mind?”

Fernando looked to Xabi, eyes wide. “What?”

“Does he mind that you tell him everything? Does he mind hearing all the details?”

Fernando didn’t know what to say to that.

“I’ll tell you the answer, then. He minds, Nando. He minds very much.”

“How do you—?”

“Never mind how I know,” Xabi said, waving a hand. In an instant, Fernando knew the answer: Stevie. Well, that settled it. He was never speaking to Gerrard about anything personal ever again. “I’m going out with Álvaro. You coming?”

Nando shook his head, still too stupefied to properly respond.

“Right then,” Xabi gave a quick smile as he headed to the door. “Enjoy your night, Nando. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

As the door shut behind Xabi, Fernando felt something buzzing in his pocket. He pulled out his phone and looked at the newly received message.

 **3 new messages**  
**From:** Sese ☆☺︎☺︎☺︎♡☼  
_we need 2 talk_  
_meet me @ the pool @ midnight_  
_dont fucking tell xabi_

Fernando stared at the screen for a moment, unsure what to say at first before typing back a quick ‘OK’ and pocketing his phone. He wasn’t looking forward to explaining everything to Sergio, but truth be told he was glad he had a few hours to spare. That would maybe give him enough time to try to explain everything to himself first.


	21. Chapter Twenty

“I think I should go talk to him.”

Raúl’s words caught Álvaro off guard, echoing around the tiled walls of the bathroom and off the plastic of the transparent door. He wiped some of the water off the door with his fist and peered out at Raúl, who was trying his best to fix his hair despite the mirror being entirely fogged up.

“What?” Álvaro asked, voice muffled by the running water. “I can’t really hear you.”

“Yeah, I should definitely go talk to him.”

“Are you talking to me?”

Raúl only then seemed to realize that he was speaking aloud, and he turned to look at Álvaro. He shrugged and gave him a small smile. “I’m just thinking out loud.”

Álvaro made a sort of affirmative sound and stepped back under the spray to rinse his soapy body. “Go on,” he called. “And enunciate, please.”

“I was just thinking, Varo. Maybe I should go talk to David.” Álvaro very pointedly did not say a thing. “I’m worried about him. He seemed really upset after what happened.”

“Yeah, well that’s not all that surprising, Chori. Villa scared the hell out of all of us.” That was a bit of an understatement on Álvaro’s part. In the ensuing turmoil, he’d been convinced he’d somehow spontaneously developed superpowers and accidentally murdered Villa with his thoughts. It was a terrifying five seconds in his own head, to be sure. He quickly sorted himself out, but he’d panicked and he’d felt pretty guilty over the whole thing until the medics rushed in, like maybe he’d done something wrong by not catching him. He knew it wasn’t his fault, but there was still that moment in his head, the fear of not knowing. Álvaro didn’t do well with feelings like that.

“And now he’s rooming with Cesc.” Raúl said, giving up on his hair. He leaned against the counter, chin rested on his palm.

“Cesc is a nice guy. Cesc will look after him.”

“Cesc hardly knows him. I’m his friend, I should be with him.”

“Why don’t you go check on him, then?” Álvaro asked, working his shampoo into a lather. “You two can come with me and Xabi. He spotted a nice looking restaurant right around the corner and we’re going to try it.”

The younger man quirked his head, eyeing Álvaro’s barely obscured silhouette through the plastic door. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Don’t be stupid. You’re not intruding. Besides, I see Xabi everyday. I barely ever get to see you.”

Raúl was silent a moment, then he let out a sharp, mirthful laugh. “Aw, Álvaro! Is this your way of saying you’ve missed me?”

“Shut up.”

He cackled, “Aw, lover, I’ve missed you too!”

Álvaro sighed. “Are you coming to dinner or not?”

“I’ll go ask David,” Raúl answered. “He might not come, but I’ll be there.”

“Good. I want you there.” Álvaro’s words became muffled as he stepped back into the water to rinse his hair.

“Yes, dear,” Raúl took that moment of distraction to hurriedly scrawl something on the wetted mirror with his finger. As soon as he was finished, he called out over the noise of the water, “I’ll text you in a few.”

When Álvaro got out of the shower, he noticed the mirror message right away. ‘RA + AA’, enclosed in a lopsided heart. He wanted to roll his eyes but didn’t, it was so ridiculous, so dumb. Instead he scrawled something equally stupid underneath it: ‘Chori + Tostada’, with a big smiley face.

 

—

 

Geri was still mad at Cesc. He felt personally slighted, maybe even a little bit betrayed, and on top of that, he now had to share his personal space with one Sergio _Fucking_ Ramos. It was a nightmare, a complete and utter nightmare. In anticipation of Ramos’ arrival, he hurriedly secured all of his valuables and tidied up the room, making sure his half of the hotel room was just the way he liked it before the Sevillan invaded.

Midway through, Cesc breezed in, presumably to retrieve his belongings so he could migrate to Silva’s room. “Hey,” Cesc said, grumbling a little.

Geri looked up at him and frowned. “What are you so unhappy about? It was _your_ idea to swap rooms, don’t you remember?”

“It’s not that,” Cesc sighed, shoving his clothes haphazardly into his bag. He paused, biting his lip in concentration. He wanted to talk about his anxiety (and also his excitement) over his impending breakfast date with Iker (and Silva) but he didn’t want Gerard to be even more upset with him. “It’s nothing.”

The taller man sighed, “Don’t give me that. It’s obvious something’s bugging you. I mean look at you, Cesc. You’re hardly even fidgeting.”

It was true, he was perfectly still. Cesc looked to Geri, hope in his wide eyes. He looked especially childlike, just in that moment, as he tried to endear himself to his dearest friend. “I’m just thinking about Iker and— ”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Cesc!” Gerard groaned, dragging both hands down his cheeks. “That’s it, you’ve officially lost it and I am officially mad at you.”

“ _Geri_ …”

“No, Cesc. This is stupid. You’re being stupid. And you know what? I don’t care. Go chase after your stupid Iker all you want. I don’t want to hear another word about it. All _I_ want to do is play football. So go have fun, do whatever the hell you like. Just don’t fuck up this tournament for us, Cesc.” Gerard’s words had far more venom than he’d intended, and Cesc stared back at him like he’d just been slapped. Instantly he wanted to recant, but he couldn’t form the words, couldn’t come up with anything to say that might fix it.

And Cesc was… well, Cesc was stunned, hurt, and it took him a moment to respond. His jaw set, dark eyes growing cold and narrowing after a few haunted blinks. Gone was that innocent wide-eyed kid. In his place stood a man, or something equally dangerous.

“All right,” Cesc said, nodding firmly. “That’s fine.” He spoke with finality, moving quickly to finish packing. All of his other possessions were shoved into his bag, no care given to any of it. He didn’t even bother zipping it all the way as he hefted it over his shoulder and stomped toward the door. “Have fun with _Sergio_ , Geri.”

And with that, Cesc was gone, leaving Gerard feeling like he’d just torpedoed his relationship with his best friend, possibly forever.

 

—

 

Silva had a pretty decent poker face, generally speaking, so his inner turmoil wasn’t exactly noticeable to the outside world, but internally he was screaming. He was a wreck, mind racing through a thousand and one different possible outcomes for the situation, coming up with a thousand more reasons why Villa hadn’t texted him yet. He wanted to go to the hospital himself, demand entrance, cause a scene, _anything_ to ease his mind just a little. But he was too smart and not impulsive enough to do something like that. So he sat in his hotel room— _their_ hotel room, and he waited.

Cesc would be arriving soon anyways, and he’d be a good distraction if nothing else. At least he’d serve as a sort of deterrent, to keep Silva from compulsively checking his phone every fifteen seconds for an incoming text message.

He was just glancing at his phone for the seventy-fifth time when there was a knock at the door. Hurriedly, he went to get it, assuming he’d see Cesc on the other side. He didn’t though.

“David,” Raúl said, stepping into the room, letting the door fall shut behind him. He looked especially sympathetic. It tugged at Silva’s heart.

“Hey,” Silva tried to smile. “I wasn’t expecting you. What’s up?”

Raúl didn’t say anything first. He just tucked his arms around his friend and gave him a hug and then gently kissed the top of his head. Silva stood there frozen, body tense as Raúl enveloped him. But then he relaxed, exhaled, and leaned into Raúl’s embrace. “He’s going to be okay, David. I promise.”

“Oh, Chori.”

He didn’t like the worried lilt in Silva’s voice, didn’t like the stuttering way he drew in his breath. He didn’t think David would cry, but something snapped inside him. Raúl drew back then, setting both of his hands on Silva’s shoulders. “He’s going to be fine. And if he’s not and he makes you cry, I swear to god, Silvita, I will beat the crap out of him.” There was no mistaking the smile in his voice, and Silva smiled for it in spite of his inner anguish.

Silva looked down, clenching his jaw. “I just love him. And he won’t text back.”

“You must realize you sound like a teenaged girl.” Chori smirked.

“Shut up.” Silva protested halfheartedly.

Raúl reached over to ruffle Silva’s hair fondly. “He’ll text you back. I know he will. You have to be patient.”

“I know. But I’m so worried.”

The older man raised his eyebrows imploringly, urging Silva to look him in the eyes. “Come on, David. We both know it’s going to take more than a botched trust fall to keep our Guaje down. The man is like a rubber band. He always snaps back into place.”

Silva blinked a few times, then a slow, lopsided grin spread across his face. “I’m sure he’d appreciate the analogy.”

“I’ve always been incredibly poetic. You should know this by now.”

“How could I forget?”

Raúl beamed. “Okay, but listen. I’m going to grab something to eat with Álvaro and Xabi. You’re invited. You should come with us.”

As Silva opened his mouth to answer, his phone vibrated and chirped from inside his pocket. He leapt about a foot into the air as he fumbled with it. “It’s David!”

“What’s it say?” Raúl asked, craning to see the screen.

Silva frowned. “It’s just a smiley face…”

Raúl frowned too.

Then Silva’s phone began to buzz repeatedly, signaling that a rapid train of messages was incoming. Slowly, Silva’s face changed again. “Can I take a rain check on dinner, Chori?”

“Of course you can. Don’t be silly. Talk to your man.” Silva rolled his eyes at him. Raúl shrugged. “If you need anything, just howl.”

He gave Silva’s shoulder a quick squeeze and pulled the door shut as the younger man retreated back into the hotel room. Good news, Villa was functional enough to send text messages. Bad news? He was still at the hospital. Raúl shivered a little, thinking back a night full of weird missed text messages, culminating in one of the three of them being hospitalized. Different circumstances, different details, but it was unnerving nonetheless. Setting it all aside, he headed for the elevators, figuring he’d meet Álvaro and Xabi downstairs. As he approached the bay, he spotted Sergio furiously typing into his phone.

“Hey, Sergio! How’s it going?”

Sergio looked up at him with cold, dead eyes. “Everything is shitty, Chori, thanks for asking.”

Raúl’s face scrunched in confusion. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

The Sevillan rolled his eyes. “The world is backwards and nothing makes sense anymore but aside from that, nothing’s wrong. Jesus, do you even listen to yourself?”

“ _Okay._ ” He shook his head, hands raised in mock surrender. “We’ll talk tomorrow, I guess.”

Sergio gave him a look as if to say ‘yeah, whatever’, before he suddenly seemed to snap back into reality. He smiled then, big and toothy and fake as hell. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Listen, I’m having a rough night and I was thinking maybe you could do me a favor?”

Raúl pressed the call button and slowly turned his head to look at Sergio. “What is it?”

“Swap rooms with me? I’m stuck with Piqué. I can’t stay with him, Chori. I just can’t.”

The look on Sergio’s face was priceless. He looked so young, so timid, so small. It was deceptive and cultivated, Raúl knew. It was a look he’d seen Sergio use before, usually on Iker, if he wanted something desperately but had been denied. It was pleading, begging, childlike. It was almost adorable. And Raúl could sense that he was falling for it. Was Sergio pouting? Shit… “I—”

“Just for the night, Chori? Please?”

“But I’m rooming with Álvaro.”

Sergio’s lips twisted as he considered the option, then he smiled, brown eyes twinkling deceptively, “I can live with Álvaro.”

‘And I can’t live without him,’ Chori thought, sighing. Álvaro would kill him, or at the very least make a passive aggressive tweet about it, and quite frankly Raúl wasn’t sure he could handle that. But could he say no to Sergio, when he looked so positively desperate. “I’ll ask him, okay? I’ll text you later and let you know.”

Sergio seemed to accept this, nodding eagerly, eyes lighting up before he grabbed Raúl’s shoulders and kissed both of his cheeks. “You’re the best, Chori! I knew I liked you for a reason.”

“Yeah, well. We’ll see.” The elevator arrived then, to rescue him from Sergio’s moods. Raúl stepped inside quickly. “I’ll text you.”

“Don’t forget!” Sergio called as the doors shut between them. Immediately, Raúl forgot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be on vacation and traveling across the country, so there will be a longer wait for next chapter! My apologies! But next chapter is Sergio & Fernando's meeting at the pool... :)


	22. Chapter Twenty-One

Fernando’s heart was still racing as he pressed the elevator button to go up to the pool deck. It wasn’t quite midnight, he still had a half an hour to spare, but he’d reached the point where he realized he needed to get out of his hotel room otherwise he’d lose the nerve to go up there at all. He’d spent hours sitting in silent contemplation, staring at the hideous floral wallpaper, hoping some sort of answer would come to him, but the only answer that came was the laugh track on the television on the other side of the wall. Whoever was in the next room was watching some Azerbaijani sitcom or something at top volume, and it got very old very quickly. How was he supposed to sort out his complex and contradictory feelings with that sort of soundtrack constantly distracting him?

It just wasn’t fair. How could he have gotten himself into this situation? He’d never meant to lead Daniel on, and he’d never _really_ meant to keep his friendship with him a secret from Sergio. He just wasn’t thinking clearly. Or maybe he was. Now, that he was forced to confront himself, he wasn’t quite sure.

In that room, sitting on his bed, he’d come to two conclusions. Firstly, he loved Dan. Dan was as good a friend as a man could ask for, his best friend, really. He could ask Dan for anything, completely bear his soul to him, hang out, whatever. And the devotion was mutual. He’d drop anything if Dan needed help, he’d totally have his back in a fight, whatever. It wasn’t a hearts and flowers sort of thing, not exactly, but it was the sort of friendship that he needed and would treasure forever. They were close, so close that he knew things could change, if he wanted them to change. 

So he loved Dan. He did. Just… not like he loved Sergio.

That was the second conclusion. Well, not technically. He adored Sergio, fawned over him, wanted to live and die in his presence. Was it love? Maybe. It might be. It could definitely become that. What he felt for Sergio was more of a burgeoning fascination spurred on by an intense mutual attraction. If nothing else, the tension that had been building between them over the last several years was something close enough to love that Fernando never wanted it to stop. If it wasn’t love, it felt like the next best thing. It was what he wanted. It was what he needed.

Still, he was almost shaking as the elevator doors opened and he stepped out onto the pool deck. He was alone, thankfully, so no one else would be present to see what a nervous wreck he was as he anxiously paced the deck for the next thirty minutes, literally wringing his hands.

At 12:02 the elevator doors finally sprang open again and Fernando found himself face to face with Sergio. Sergio looked just as gorgeous as he ever had, staring across the deck at him with those wide brown eyes. Fernando felt his heart skip a beat, and before he could stop himself he was walking toward him.

“Sese,” he said, smiling. He couldn’t help but smile around Sergio.

For his part, Sergio smiled too, even if he looked a little uneasy. He was trying to hide it, Fernando could tell, and that made him feel nervous too, like maybe Sergio was mad at him. “I didn’t mean to be late. Stupid elevator.”

“It’s fine,” Fernando insisted, watching him, waiting for a cue. Sergio just stood there, too. Their eyes met, and for a moment, Fernando wanted to shrink away and hide. There was something in Sergio’s eyes that made him feel nervous. He’d never felt that way with Sergio before, never felt afraid. And here he was, face to face, alone with the one person on the planet he felt most comfortable with and he was suddenly overcome with panic. Fernando’s breathing quickened, face falling a little.

Sergio took note, apparently, because his own expression changed to one of concern as he sighed and reached out to slap a hand on Fernando’s shoulder. It was reassuring, or was meant to be anyway. “Aw, come on, Nando. Don’t be like this. You knew I wasn’t gonna stand you up.” 

They locked eyes again, and whatever oddity had been there before was gone. Fernando allowed himself to relax, smile even, as he melted slightly under the heat of Sergio’s touch. “I’m sorry, I just…” 

“Come on. We need to talk. Let’s sit by the pool,” Sergio said, arm slung fully around Fernando’s shoulders as he guided them toward the tranquil blue water. Somehow, without Fernando realizing how it had happened, they both were sitting with their feet dangling over the edge, up to the ankles in the water. 

They sat side by side for a few minutes, neither one speaking at first, both staring at the ripples and waves. Despite the quiet, it was hardly calm. Fernando could feel the tension building between them again, and it wasn’t the pleasant kind that he’d come to enjoy. It was something else completely, a sort of nervous, scared tension. A tension that what could be might never be. The silence was excruciating. Fernando would rather have Sergio visibly and audibly mad at him than to get this odd variety of silent treatment.

He had to say something. He had to explain himself. He needed to come clean about Dan, explain that yes, they were friends, and yes, they were close, but he’d made up his mind. He wanted Sergio, or at least the chance to see if the emotional tension pulled taut for years could develop into something more meaningful that a drunken make out session or a one night stand. He had to explain, that while Dan’s friendship was one of the most meaningful relationships he’d ever had, if he had to choose, right then, in that moment, he’d pick Sergio. Maybe it wouldn’t work out. Maybe he was being stupid, but dammit, he was in love, or something like it. And he was about to say as much when Sergio turned to him, reached out, and shoved him into the pool.

“Hurrnngahlaurgh!!!” The splash that accompanied Fernando’s cry was especially impressive. When he finally resurfaced for air, he was met with the sounds of Sergio’s guffawing laughter. He sputtered, flailing as he gasped for sweet oxygen. “Sergio! What the fuck!”

“Oh, relax, Nando!” Sergio managed between snorts. 

“What the hell was that for?” He shook his head, chlorine water dripping into his face. He was practically vibrating, he was so angry, betrayed by Sergio, who sat on the ledge above him cackling. “Oh fuck, my phone!” 

“Relax,” Sergio snickered. “I got it out of your pocket first.” Instinctively, Fernando reached for his pocket to feel. Indeed, there was no phone, and when he looked back to Sergio, the Sevillan had it in hand. “Don’t ask me how I did it. It’s a secret.”

“Why did you do that?” Fernando demanded, swimming toward Sergio, cheeks burning pink, the color intensified by the blue-green of the water. 

Sergio stared back at him, having finally settled down again, feet moving in little circles in the pool. “Because you deserved it.”

“What?” He couldn’t believe his ears. Surely he’d misheard. “What did I do to deserve you pushing me into a pool and ruining my clothes. And probably my hair also, by the way. I didn’t do anything.”

“What about _Daniel_?” Sergio said flatly, eyes narrowing a little. “What about your boyfriend back home, Nando? Were you ever gonna tell me about him? Huh?”

“Stop it. He’s not my boyfriend.” 

“That’s not what Xabi said.” 

“Xabi didn’t say he was my boyfriend.”

“Well he didn’t _not_ say it.”

“But he didn’t say that. You inferred it. That’s not the same thing.” 

“Xabi implies things. That’s his thing. He does that all the time. If anyone should be used to it, it’s you, _Nando_.”

“Xabi is also super ambiguous and he’s not going to correct you if you jump to the wrong conclusions. Besides, he was just trying to force me to reevaluate my life and my choices and pissing _you_ off just happens to be a sure fire way to get me to do that. _Sergio_.”

“Okay, whatever, fine. Tell me about Daniel. Who is he? What is he to you?”

Fernando paused, stilled in the water, eyes locked with Sergio’s. For the first time all night he truly recognized the look in the younger man’s eyes. Hurt. Pain. A little big of jealousy. All at once he felt like garbage, like he’d really fucked up. He’d spent the entire evening thinking about himself, he’d barely even spared a thought to how Sergio must feel. Years they’d spent in this prolonged cat-and-mouse teasing, with an unspoken yet very sincere promise of _someday, someday_. Sergio had had that all thrown in his face, hadn’t he. After years of fawning over his Fernando, he’d been slapped with the possibility that it was over, that it meant nothing. And there was Fernando, so caught up in his own failings that he hadn’t even considered how Sergio might feel at all. It was like a punch in the gut, like the wind had been knocked out of him.

“Sese, I—”

“Don’t deflect me.” Sergio’s voice was louder then, echoing off the tiled walls of the room. He didn’t sound angry. He almost sounded… scared. Fernando felt his soul sinking. “Nando. Just answer me. What is he to you? Not your boyfriend, okay. Your lover? What? I’m not mad, I promise, I swear, I—”

“He’s not any of those things,” Fernando said quickly, quietly, water lapping up around his shoulders. “He’s my friend. My best friend. Besides you, he’s my best friend. And Sese, I…”

He trailed off, because Sergio wasn’t looking at him anymore. He realized then how hollow his words sounded. He was like some televangelist caught embezzling with his mistress, made to apologize. He just sounded guilty.

“I’ll tell you everything. Whatever you want to know,” Fernando added, taking a step toward him.

Sergio finally looked back to him, expression having changed into something a little colder. It was unlike him, and Fernando was once again put off. “Why didn’t you tell me about him? I never even knew you guys were friends.”

He didn’t have a good enough answer for that, he knew. It made sense in his head at the time, but now it just seemed like a mistake. Fernando looked like a scolded puppy. “I didn’t want you to be jealous.”

Sergio let out a howl of a laugh. “That’s rich! Me? Jealous of some weirdo Dane? Please, Nando. You’re not serious.” 

“He’s not a weirdo.”

“I guess I’ll just have to take your word for it then.” Sergio’s eyes were burning, blazing, and Fernando could almost swear he can feel the heat. It makes him want to slip under the water and hide away. But he can’t do that. He’d have to resurface eventually and deal with the fall out. He made his bed, now he’d have to sleep in it.

“I’m sorry.” The water lapped up around his shoulders and he looked up to Sergio pleadingly. “I didn’t mean to… I didn’t think that you…” He didn’t know what else to say. All he knew for sure was that he’d royally fucked up. 

For his part, Sergio just looked back. And he looked hurt, more exposed and wounded than Fernando had seen him in a long time. He wasn’t one who generally tempered his emotions, but at the same time, Sergio was smart enough not to leave himself out to dry. He smiled the widest. He laughed the loudest. He also yelled the loudest. He did everything with extra enthusiasm and extra volume. 

When he hurt, he didn’t let it show. He’d laugh it off, dance it off, whatever. He didn’t crumble though. Seeing him now, dejected, diminished, shook Fernando to his core. He’d fucked up, _beyond_ the royal level.

“That’s the thing, you know,” Sergio says, voice cutting through the silence. “That’s just it, Nando.” 

Fernando shrank a little but stayed silent, waiting for the lashing that was sure to come. He deserved it, whatever it was.

“Were you trying to make me jealous? Is that what you wanted? Because it worked. It totally worked.”

“I wasn’t. I didn’t think you—”

“Yeah, I know. You didn’t think about me. You didn’t think about my feelings. Not once. Not even a little. After all this time, I didn’t factor in at all.” 

Sergio started to stand up, pushing up from the ledge. Fernando felt his stomach lurch as he lunged through the water to chase after him, reaching out to Sergio as he picked himself up. “Wait! Stop! Wait, Sergio!”

The younger man paused, standing tall, brown eyes cool as he gazed down at him. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of stopping. I’m tired of being a toy. You’ve flirted with me for _years_ , Nando. _Years_. And it’s always a _maybe_. It’s always _some other time_. It’s always going to be never, isn’t it? Well, I’m sick of it. I’m done.”

It was true. They’d always skirted around, teased, hinted, never truly acted on the obvious pull between them. That had always been part of the allure, for Fernando anyway, knowing that no matter what happened, the magnetic draw with him and Sergio would be his constant. He never kidded himself, he knew there’d be others for both of them, but whenever they were together, the world would melt away and it was just them, just the two of them in a state of adoration and flirtation and bliss. Going beyond that would mean putting that comfortable tension on the line, risking the known for the sake of the unknown. He’d wanted to go further, wanted to know what it would be like to love Sergio for reals and not just in his head, but that would mean the possibility of things misaligning with how he’d imagined them. It was scary to think about, especially after having spent years building it up. However, no matter how they tempted or played with each other, Fernando had never thought of Sergio as his toy. Sergio was more than that. Sergio was a sun. No, fuck that. Sergio was a goddamn supernova. 

As Sergio turned away, Fernando finally found his voice again. “Sergio. It’s not never. It’s not maybe. It’s always and it’s never stopped, not once, not even for a second. Don’t you know that?”

Sergio glanced back at him, watching over his shoulder as Fernando hoisted himself out of the water, dripping everywhere as he waddled across the deck after him.

“I messed up, okay? I should’ve told you about Dan. I should’ve told you about a lot of things. You’re my best friend and I was an idiot and I wasn’t trying to make you jealous I was trying to _not_ make you jealous and I’m an idiot. Officially. For the record.” Fernando stood where he was, mere feet from Sergio, sopping and looking generally pitiful. “I just… it’s always been you, Sergio. Always. How could there be anyone else?” 

A slow, smug little smile spread across Sergio’s lips, and Fernando realized instantly that all was forgiven. _Almost_. “You say that, Nando, and yet you’ve never even kissed me.”

“I’ve never kissed you _sober_ ,” Fernando corrected him, feeling his cheeks flush slightly.

“We can fix that, you know.” 

—

It was just after 3 o’clock when Gerard finally heard the door open. He stayed still and tried to block out the noise of shuffling and moving around until the strange _squishing_ sound that accompanied the footsteps finally got the best of him. He sat up and flicked on the lamp. “What’s going on?”

And there, from across the room, stood one Sergio Ramos, dripping wet with a towel wrapped around his waist and his soaked clothes tossed over his shoulders, wet sneakers the culprits of the annoyingly loud squishing sounds. The Sevillan cocked an eyebrow at him, giving a mild shrug. “Go back to sleep.”

“What the fuck happened to you?”

“I went swimming.” 

“In your clothes?”

“Only at first.”

“Jesus.”

“Good night, Geri.”

“Fuck.”

“Sweet dreams, Geri.”

“Ugh.”

“Do you want the details? Because I’ll tell you the details.”

“No! Shut up! Good night!”

And with that, Geri turned off the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for how long this took! The next few chapters are already written though, so the wait won't be nearly as long next time! Happy Halloween everyone!


	23. Chapter Twenty-Two

Silva was already in the room when Cesc arrived, sitting on the far bed with his back to the door, eyes fixed on his phone in his lap. He looked small, almost childlike, all hunched down around the device, and his eyes went wide as saucers when he turned around to see Cesc entering.

“Hey,” Cesc waved casually, a little dismayed at how jumpy Silva was. It wasn’t like it could be anyone else at the door.

Silva looked down quickly, turning back to his phone. “Hi.” Whatever he was doing was clearly more interesting that talking to Cesc.

He decided that he didn’t care, or at least that he’d try not to, and he sat down on his own bed to tug off his shoes. Silva still wasn’t acknowledging him, so Cesc cleared his throat. “Have you talked to Villa yet?” That seemed like a safe topic. And judging from how quickly Silva turned around to look at him, the Asturian was clearly on his mind.

“Yes,” Silva answered, staring at Cesc, large brown eyes boring into him. There was something unnerving about the look in Silva's eyes. Something almost sinister, almost inhuman. The younger man wanted to squirm beneath that gaze, it felt so intense, so needlessly searching, and he instantly felt a pang of guilt for even daring to think about Silva in that way. Silva was nice to him, always had been, even when he was in a bad mood. It was messed up of him to think he saw anything inhuman in his eyes. And it was weird. Whatever it was that Cesc thought he saw was probably just concern over Villa's health scare.

Of course Silva had spoken with Villa. Those two were practically joined at the hip and everyone knew it. As teammates on Valencia they naturally developed a familiarity with one another. Translating that to the National Team was a natural extension of that bond. But it was also clear that they were fond of each other off the pitch as well, since they lingered in each other’s presence even when given the option to branch out. Cesc couldn’t tell if it was that Silva’s shyness dictated this strange dynamic or if it was Villa’s ego driving them together. Either way, there was no denying that having one without the other was pretty strange.

Cesc raised his eyebrows, to prompt him to speak. “And? Is he alright? He scared the shit out of us, passing out like that.”

Silva held his gaze a moment before his phone buzzed and lit up in his hand. He frowned slightly, looking down at his phone once again. “The doctors will have to carry out further testing tomorrow, but he says it’s just the flu.” He looked up, an air of finality about him. Cesc found the intensity in Silva’s face highly unnerving. “So it’s just the flu.”

“He’d better get hydrated then.” Cesc said, agreeing with the assessment, even if it seemed unresearched and a little premature. No sense in arguing with Silva about it though, and better to think positive thoughts. It could be a lot worse than a stomach bug, after all. “He’ll probably be feeling better by morning. Maybe he’ll even get to come cheer us on tomorrow.” It was unlikely, but a little optimism never hurt anyone.

Something passed over Silva’s face then, a twitch of a smile. Sharp white teeth nibbled on his lower lip and he nodded. “I know him. He’ll be there tomorrow.”

“You sound so sure.” Cesc laughed, falling flat on his back on the bed, his feet dangling over the edge at the knees. “What if he’s puking his guts out or something. You think the doctors would release him if he’s so sick he can’t stand up?”

“I told you,” the Canarian said, tracing a long finger around the square edges of his phone. Cesc watched him from the corner of his eyes, noting the look of fondness which passed over him as he did. “I know David. And if he says he’ll be there, he’ll be there.” 

 

—

 

The only word to really describe Cesc’s dream that night was _bizarre_. He wasn’t sure where he was— Spain maybe? No, not Spain. It wasn’t Spain, or if it was it was some place in Spain which felt completely foreign to him, what with the odd mountains jutting out of arid savannah, and the vast, plantation like rows of plantains and other fruits of unusual and unnatural colors. His mind didn’t connect that anything was amiss at first, just registered that he was in an orchard, that he was surrounded by beautiful plants, that he felt completely at ease in this green, floral setting. The sky was a deep purple, a cool sort of hue, and overhead shone the golden yellow moon. The stars stood out against the backdrop of the sky like a swarm of fireflies, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was all alone in a strange orchard, he might have found it sort of romantic.

He stared at one of the blooming plants, nose wrinkling as he rolled up onto his toes in order to reach one of the low hanging plants there. Try as he might, though, he wasn’t quite tall enough to reach it. As he did, he was suddenly aware that he wasn’t alone and he turned his eyes to find he was face to face with Iker.

His heart skipped and he smiled.

“Need a hand?” Iker asked, not waiting for him to answer. He easily plucked one of the strong, bright fruits and brought it to his lips, biting into it before offering it to Cesc. “You look hungry.”

He grinned unabashedly and accepted it with both hands. “You’re always looking out for me, aren’t you, Iker.”

“Always,” Iker smirked, red juice dripping from his lips. His tongue quickly darted out and he licked it away. Cesc stared at Iker’s mouth a moment before their eyes met, Iker’s dark, with a glint of something mysterious in them. He decided he rather liked that look in Iker’s eyes.

Laughing, Cesc brought the fruit to his mouth, half a second away from biting in when he heard someone else in the distance, calling out to him.

“Cesc! Stop!”

His attention turned, and there, sprinting through the rows of fruit trees was Geri, out of breath and looking angry.

“Don’t eat it!” Geri hissed, running toward them at full speed.

He frowned, eyes narrowing at his old friend. “What? Why? What’s— ”

“Stay away from him!” Geri yelled, met with an inhuman growl which took Cesc by surprise. He looked back to Iker, but instead of seeing Iker, he found that he was face to face with a dark furred, snarling monster.

“What the f—!!” Cesc dropped the fruit, stumbling back and away from Iker, bumping into one of the trees. He stood there, dumbstruck at the sight as the creature growled and lunged toward him.

It happened so quickly then, in a flash of fur and fists. As Cesc tried to shield himself with his arms, he caught a glimpse of Geri diving to tackle the creature, knocking it to the soil with a heavy thud. The beast let out a terrifying howl, unearthly in how it seemed to echo and bounces off the foliage, defying the laws of sound, rolling back onto it’s four great paws as it leapt at Geri.

“Geri!” Cesc cried out, but it was too late. His friend was taken to the ground by the animal, which was now staring at Cesc with it’s dark, glowing eyes, as if to say _you’re next, you’re next, you’re next._

Cesc’s heart was pounding, adrenaline rush overtaking him. He suddenly didn’t feel afraid anymore. Breathing in, he felt a sense of serenity as he prepared to surrender to the beast.

 

— 

 

He woke with a start at the sound of banging in the room adjacent to theirs. Dream immediately forgotten, Cesc sat up in bed with a rattling gasp, disoriented as he fumbled around for the lamp on the bedside table. Silva sat up in his own bed, equally confused at whatever was going on.

“What the fuck is that noise?” Cesc groaned, shielding his eyes once the light was on. The clock on the table read 4:02.

“Shhh!” Silva hissed back, pushing off his blankets as he found his feet. “Listen.”

Cesc frowned but obeyed, tilting his head so he could better pinpoint the source of the ongoing thumping sounds from the room next door. “It’s definitely coming from that room. Who the hell is in there anyway?”

Silva’s brows furrowed as he approached the wall, pressing his ear up against it. Just as he did, the muffled sound of a voice came from the other side. “Raúl and Álvaro,” he said, arms folded across his bare chest. There was something off about the way he stood there. Silva seemed in command on the situation, both calm and angry at the same time. It might have worried Cesc if he weren't too busy being tired and frustrated to really pay close attention.

“Raúl and Álvaro need to shut the fuck up! It’s four in the morning and we have a match this evening.” And Cesc had breakfast plans with Iker, thank you very much. He needed his beauty sleep if he was going to compete with David Silva. “Move out of the way. I want to bang on the wall and yell at them.” And they thought Cesc was the irresponsible one. Ha.

“I’ll go tell them to knock it off,” Silva said calmly, waving a hand before Cesc could protest. He could only watch lamely as Silva exited the room, and he could only listen in rapt wonder at the strange and curiously wild sounds through the wall. Whatever was going on over there almost sounded more like a dog fight than an actual human conversation. 

Yawning, he climbed out his bed and wandered over to the window, pushing open the curtains enough to see the bright yellow moon over the Baku skyline. He couldn't tell if it was full or not. Maybe it had been the night before, or maybe it would be tomorrow or the next day. He couldn't remember which was waxing and which was the other thing. Either way it was really pretty. He rubbed his eyes and let himself admire the scenery for a moment until a sharp, decisive sounding snarl pierced through the common wall and grabbed his attention.

“What the hell...?”

Now he was actually worried. He shoved the curtains back closed again, deciding that maybe he should go over to Raúl and Álvaro's room to serve as back up. Or maybe he should call Iker. Iker would know what to do. And Iker would look gorgeous doing it, so it was a win-win situation.

The growling noises grew louder and louder, as Cesc grew more and more concerned that maybe Albiol and Arbeloa had smuggled some Rottweilers into their hotel room or something when he heard doors closing and movement from the hall. Seconds later, Silva casually reappeared, no worse for wear, but somewhat more tense looking than he'd been only a few minutes before. Clearly there weren't any vicious animals afoot, but the Canarian did seem out of sorts.

“What’s going on over there?” Cesc demanded, approaching Silva to inspect him.

“They were watching TV.”

That had to be the stupidest excuse in the world and Cesc didn’t buy it. Besides, what sort of TV made noises similar to that of a bed frame being banged repeatedly against a wall? He might be stupid, but he wasn’t dumb. Cesc paused, giving a sly grin. “Were they naked?”

“It was a horror movie.” Silva’s voice had an authority to it that Cesc hadn’t ever heard before, and for some reason, he felt like he shouldn’t question it further. “Anyways, they apologized. Let’s go back to bed.”

Cesc watched as Silva walked past him to his bed and crawled in again, settling down to check his phone like nothing there was nothing at all unusual about the volume levels and the obvious sex sounds and deafening canine cries which had come from the other room only minutes before. Maybe this entire scenario was a dream. That was the only was Cesc could truly explain the bizarro factor of the situation he was presently in.

Grudgingly, he climbed back into bed too, doubling checking the alarm clock before he switched off the bedside lamp.

“Good night, Silva.”

“Good night, Cesc.”

They were both quiet for a minute or so before Cesc spoke again. “What movie?”

“Huh?” Silva had nearly been asleep. Cesc almost felt bad.

“You said they were watching a movie. What movie was it?”

Silva shifted in his bed. Cesc could see his outline rolling over onto his side so that he was facing the windows. “Will you shut up and go to sleep if I tell you they were having sex?”

In the dark, Cesc’s whole face lit up. “Holy shit! Really? I was mostly kidding about that!”

“Good night, Cesc.”

“Those two? I knew it! Just as I suspected! But don’t worry, I won’t tell anybody! I just have to say for the record, though, that I totally saw this coming!”

“Cesc.”

“Remember back in Vienna when they snu— ”

“Good night, Cesc.”

Cesc stifled a sigh, then flipped over onto his belly. He was impossibly wired and suddenly had the urge to engage in a full blown gossip fest. But he could be patient. He could be good. Tomorrow was match day. The gossip could wait until they boarded the plane the next day. “All right, fine. Good night, Silva."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [pimpam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpam) for cheerleading me all week and helping with editing this and the next few chapters! I wrote these chapters first, all the way back in June, so I've been a little anxious about how everything is fitting together, having gone back to write up to this point. Anyways, thank you, love! And thank you everyone for reading! :D


	24. Chapter Twenty-Three

Silva's mind was racing, torn between thoughts of Villa and his encounter with Raúl and Álvaro. Those idiots, he thought, exhaling bitterly into his pillow.

Across the room, Cesc began to softly snore.

“Idiots,” he muttered, shutting his eyes tight, trying to force the image of a disheveled and very flustered Chori, completely nude save for a hastily retrieved towel to preserve some dignity, from his mind. He had sweat on his brow and a mortified look on his face as he’d tentatively opened the door and found himself face to face with a tiny, angry werewolf.

Okay, so Silva had more or less come to terms with Chori as a sexual being, and he was reluctantly willing to accept that he was involved with Álvaro, but the aural confirmation of their union at 4am was definitely _not_ something he needed, especially after the day he’d had. Luckily Raúl was smart enough to sense when to shut up and accept a lecture. Álvaro on the other hand…

_Well…_

He laid on the bed, shirtless and perched there like a king on a throne, watching in amusement as Silva went off, eyebrows raised as his lover stood there like a scolded schoolboy. Silva wasn’t impressed.

“Oh, go back to bed, David,” Álvaro said with a yawn, not quite dismissive, but close enough to it that Silva felt his blood boiling. “The mood’s gone anyway. You’ve killed it.”

Silva sputtered, taking a step toward the bed. “I—I _what_? Are you crazy? You idiots were so loud, Cesc and I could hear every single— ”

“I said we were sorry!” Raúl reminded him.

The Canarian sighed and slowly looked back at Raúl. “What were you two thinking? We have a match tonight!”

“And standing there reminding us that isn’t going to get us to sleep any faster.”

Silva let out a low, almost wolfish growl, eyes narrowing at Álvaro.

“Hey, come on, knock it off, both of you,” Raúl frowned, reaching out to pat Silva’s shoulder, clutching the towel around his hips. “We’re sorry. It won’t happen again. In fact, we’re going to bed right now. In separate beds, even.”

Still watching Silva, Álvaro gave a shrug in response. Silva absolutely didn’t believe them, but what choice did he have? It was 4am and he was exhausted. They _all_ ought to be exhausted.

Finally, he gave a small sigh of resignation. “Whatever. Just be quiet. I swear if you wake me up again, I’ll—”

“I’ll show you out, David,” Raúl said quietly, nudging him to the door. From the bed, Álvaro waved.

“He’s such a jerk,” Silva hissed between his teeth as Chori followed him into the hallway.

“He’s really not,” Raúl said, smiling a little, still visibly anxious. “You just… came in at a bad time.”

Silva stared at him with dead eyes.

“I said we were sorry!” Chori said, laughing and pleading and trying to keep his voice down all at the same time. “It wasn’t premeditated or anything.”

“I don’t need to know the details. I need to sleep.”

“Okay, okay,” Raúl sighed, looking somber then. “How’s David?”

Silva flinched a little, then shrugged. “He’ll be all right. They think he might have the flu, or food poisoning. But he thinks he’ll be ready for tomorrow.”

The taller man grinned. “Yeah? That’s great! I’m so happy.”

“You’ll be even happier if you get some sleep.”

“You’ll be even happier once you come back to bed!” Álvaro’s voice called from inside the hotel room. Raúl almost blushed. Silva groaned.

“Keep it down. I’m serious.” He said, stalking off.

“We will,” Chori managed before slipping back into his room and shutting the door behind him.

—

“Now, where were we?” Álvaro leered, beckoning to Raúl from the bed. The younger man hesitated, looking back at his lover, slowly and deliberately bolting the door shut.  Álvaro raised his eyebrows, waiting for Raúl to rejoin him, to resume their previous activities before Silva had so rudely interrupted them.  “We were just getting to the interesting part.  You were about to—”

“Álvaro, I… I don’t… I’m scared…” Raúl swallowed, more like a gulp, as he walked back toward the bed, nerves overcoming him, more so now that they’d been disturbed.

“I’m not afraid. I told you. I want this.” Álvaro reached out for him, the space between them just too much for either of them to stand as Raúl finally closed the gap and sank to his knees before him. “This is for us, Chori. For us.”

He carefully threaded his fingers through Chori’s hair, both of them relaxing, the only sound either of them could hear was their hearts beating and their breathing. Raúl looked up at him, dark eyes wide and frightened. Álvaro looked back at him, excited, hopeful, and in control as he’d ever been.  “What if I tell you I love you again?  You know I do.  Do you want me to tell you again?”

“Álvaro, please.”

“I love you.  Now, do it.  I'm ready, do it.”

Raúl turned his face then, to gently kiss Álvaro’s palm, pulling away as he tossed the towel he’d been wearing aside. He stood, as if to leave, causing Álvaro to frown.

“Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom. You don’t want to see this.”

Álvaro stood up quickly. “Don’t be ridiculous. I want to see. I need to see.”

“Baby—”

“Do it here.”

Raúl paused, clenching his fists as he breathed in and out. Álvaro watched him closely and took a step toward him before Raúl turned, a hand raised to stop him. “Stay back. _Please_.”

“Raúl—”

“Stay away from me. It hurts and… I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

“Chori—”

“ _Get away from me!_ ” Raúl hissed, looking at him now, a wild, haunted gleam in his eyes.

Álvaro stopped, nodded, and sank back onto the bed, rapt at the sudden change that began to take place before his eyes. Raúl began to transform before he could even blink, hands contorting first, stretching and growing into hideous twisted claws. His spine shifted beneath his skin. All of his bones seemed to be moving as he collapsed to the floor, jaw open in a wordless, soundless scream. Álvaro stared, terror finally settling over him, the realization hitting at last. _This is it, this is real, this is what it means…_

“Chori…?” He whispered, voice cracking as the beast turned to face him. Both were panting, both with wide, wild looks in their eyes. “Chori can you hear me?”

The wolf stared at him, pink tongue hanging from his open mouth. Then, in a bolt of motion, it leapt onto the bed, knocking Álvaro backward as it pinned his shoulders down with its massive paws.

“Ch-Chori!” Álvaro gasped, trembling beneath him, too scared to struggle or move. The wolf let out a low, commanding woof before licking the side of Álvaro’s face. He relaxed a little, though he was still terrified as the wolf’s rough tongue scraped along his cheek. “I’m not afraid,” he said, as though it were a mantra, as if repeating it would make it so. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of this, I’m not scared of anything.”

The wolf snorted, as if he was laughing right in Álvaro’s ear, and then, before the man could react of move or anything, the creature sank his teeth right into Álvaro’s shoulder. All Álvaro could do was groan in agony before the pain became too much and the moonlit room slowly faded into darkness.

—

Oddly enough, Silva and Cesc hadn’t heard a peep from the other side of the wall. It made it easier, at last, to slip off to sleep.

As he drifted off, Silva imagined Villa was there beside him. It took awhile for Silva to fall back asleep, but when he did his dreams were presented in full technicolor. And they weren't dreams, per se. The visions called into the forefront of his mind were instead a memory, and as he dreamed, his heart raced and his body twisted and writhed in his sheets.

It was a small miracle he didn't wake Cesc.

—

**September 2006  
Valencia**

Miguel Bosé was playing on the radio the first time Villa drove him home from practice. Silva remembered thinking how strange it was to hear the melodramatic 80’s schlock blaring from the sound system of Villa’s sporty new car. The pulsing synthesizers and passionate crooning took the pair of them out of their own strangely heated moment and into the heartache Bosé was experiencing over his  _Nena_. Still, he couldn’t help but smile over it as he turned to watch Villa speed out of the parking lot, driving like a bit of a maniac, cranking up the volume on the radio as he sang along in a loud, somewhat off key warble.

Silva let out a soft chuckle under his breath, shaking his head as he looked from Villa back to the road. It was still late afternoon, still sunny and beautiful and warm and for whatever reason the sky took on a peaceful, romantic sort of haze. At least that was how it felt for Silva. Villa was off in his own world, navigating the traffic as he relentlessly serenaded his passenger, punctuating the dramatic lyrics with emphatic hand gestures to express the inner turmoil of the song. To drive it all home, he’d occasionally point to Silva directly and then shake his fist.

It finally became too much for Silva to stifle and he let out a sharp laugh, looking right at Villa with an expression of amusement and wonder. After months of dancing around the growing connection between them, was this what it all came down to? A brief moment spent listening to Villa pour his heart out to a new wave ballad while Silva sat giggling in the passenger seat? Was this all that would come of months of stolen glances, looks of longing, veiled caresses under the guise of typical camaraderie? Well, Silva figured, if this was all he’d get, then he’d still die a happy man. After all, who else could claim they’d had David Villa serenade them like this? He had this moment. No matter what, he’d always have that.

Villa meanwhile seemed content with Silva’s reaction, grinning triumphantly when he saw Silva’s shy smile evolve into raucous laughter. He wasn’t even sure what had come over him himself, he’d just been struck by the sudden urge to make Silva smile, do anything to make him smile. Silva had the most perfect smile. It was like the sun rose in his eyes the way they lit up. It was like his whole being was filled with amber and he was just waiting, aching,dying for someone to see into him.

He had to be the one to see into him. He had to be that man.

As the ballad ended, the next song started. Villa launched right in without missing a beat. Silva couldn’t help but laugh.

“More Miguel Bosé? Really?” 

Villa scowled at him, lacking the malice he usually attached to that expression. “What’s wrong with Miguel Bosé? This song is a classic.”

“There's nothing inherently  _wrong_  with it, it's just I never would have pegged you as a fan,” The younger man grinned, curiously leaning forward to fiddle with the radio. “Is this a CD?”

“Yes it is and don’t you dare change it. I happen to like this song.” Villa snorted, a smirk curving across his lips as he reached to swat Silva’s hand away, eyes back on the road. He half expected Silva would jerk his hand away in time, but he was surprised that the Canarian didn’t move at all. He just let Villa slap playfully at his hand, then caught hold of it in his and didn’t let go, instead threading their fingers together, boldly, definitively. 

Villa’s breath caught in his throat and he felt his stomach lurching. He stole a glance at Silva who was staring down at their newly joined hands. It wasn’t like holding a woman’s hand, nothing like that at all. Silva’s hands weren’t small or delicate. They were rough, calloused, with slender fingers and cuticles that had been bitten down out of nervousness or boredom or habit or all of the above. They weren’t pretty or pristine or manicured. They were the hands of a boy, the hands of a man. Sometimes Villa fooled himself, thinking of the younger man that way, thinking that because he was smaller he was somehow less of a man, like that would somehow justify or excuse what he felt for this boy. This man. But Silva was most certainly a man. He just happened to be a very beautiful man. And Villa just happened to be in love with him.

Silva studied their hands together too, stealing a glance at Villa’s expression, to make sure what he’d done was alright. He hadn’t intended to make the first move like that, but the tension was too much for him to take any longer. Maybe he’d get shot down, maybe it was a mistake. He sincerely doubted it, though. There was no denying the spark between them, the way it felt like things were about to ignite every time they looked at each other. So he brushed Villa’s knuckles against his lips, staring at the older man with lowered eyes, mumbling along with the music. “ _Seré el amante que muere rendido_...”

“Oh really?” Villa laughed at that, though it only served to encourage Silva further. 

The younger man smiled, kissing Villa’s hand again as he shifted in the passenger’s seat to shimmy along to the music. “You better believe it, David. I don’t go around singing Miguel Bosé to just anyone.”

“Hey, neither do I.” The older man protested, pulling his hand away then. Silva froze in his spot, looking hurt. But it was only temporary, as Villa took that opportunity to reach over to stroke Silva’s cheek. “I only do crap like this with people I actually like.” 

Silva couldn’t help but grin again, gnawing absently on his lower lip as the older man’s thumb dragged across his cheekbone. “You like me. You really like me. It must really break you up having to admit that.”

“Oh shut up,” Villa snorted, somehow managing to look both amused and put upon at the same time. He hadn’t been prepared to make any such admissions, but he couldn’t very well backtrack. All he could do was flip it around at Silva and hope to cling to some of his dignity. “And what about you? Don’t play coy with me, David. You’re wild about me. Admit it.”

“I’m wild about  _you_?” Silva trilled with laughter, feeling emboldened by how the entire situation was unfolding. Leave it to Villa to turn the tables on him. “Oh, please! Which one of us started this romantic little sing along, hm? It sure wasn’t me.”

The older man scoffed, dropping his hand so he could take a sharp turn. “I was singing along to a classic ballad. It’s not my fault you took those lyrics literally.”

He did have a point. Silva might have frowned if not for the fact that he knew he wasn’t wrong. He could still see the smile and warmth in the other man’s eyes and he could still feel the heat from where his fingers had traced along his cheek. 

“My mistake,” the Canarian said, easing back into his seat. “It was a hell of a performance though. I could have sworn you meant every word.” He closed his eyes, a slight smile on his lips. “Next block is mine, Guaje.”

Villa grunted, slowing the car a little as he reached over to take Silva’s hand in his. Silva kept his eyes shut as the older man lightly kissed the back of his hand just as they pulled up in front of his parents’ house. That was the first time David Villa kissed him. Smiling to himself, he prayed it wouldn't be the last.

In the background,  _Te Amaré_ played on. 

 

— 

Iker woke up before his alarm went off. This was fairly typical for him, even when he wasn’t stuck sharing a room with someone else. That night he’d been assigned to room with Joan Capdevila, which made for an interesting experience. They’d had opportunities to visit in the past, but they’d never been especially close, so Iker found himself surprised at how pleasant the evening had been. It was nice to talk to someone who wasn't on Real Madrid, not that he didn't enjoy Sergio's constant companionship or anything. The outside perspective was nice, and it was likewise refreshing to talk to an older, more experienced player. He liked the young guys, hell, he was close to admitting to himself that he was basically infatuated by Cesc Fàbregas, but one could learn a lot from guys who didn't play at the same clubs, too.

Still, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t desperately looking forward to having breakfast with Cesc. He’d used the extra time ahead of his alarm to shower and fuss with his hair a bit, preening until he was satisfied with his appearance, only using a slightly excessively atypical amount of hair product. If only he could wear something a bit more stylish than the team training jacket, then he’d look perfect. For a moment, it was as if Iker had completely forgotten he was only sharing a breakfast table with Cesc, and not taking him out on a date.

Capdevila, unaware of the situation at hand, gave him a brotherly laugh as he watched Iker play with his hair at the mirror by the door. “Think you’ve got enough gel there,  _Villa_?” 

Iker just rolled his eyes and left the room. He could hear Capdevila laughing still as he walked down the hall toward the elevator bank. He had a breakfast to attend, thank you very much, and he was going to look his absolute best for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miguel Bosé's music has actually provided the soundtrack for me as I write this fic, so I wanted to include a small homage to him in the story somewhere. The songs they listen to the car are:  
> [Nena](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiCisxWOTDc), [Amante Bandido](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=smfo5w7sKMY), & [Te Amaré](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WNE0kqIgzr0). I love cheesy 70's & 80's pop and the image of David Villa lip-synching to it while driving really tickled me haha.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Four

Cesc arrived in the dining room with Silva trailing just a half step behind. Although he hadn’t wanted to invite him (and was actually tempted to just tell Iker that Silva wasn’t interested in joining their table) Cesc was too nice and too honest not to extend the invitation to his roommate. Silva had accepted with a slow nod, and he’d taken his time getting ready. For once in his life, Cesc was the one left waiting around, wanting to go. He’d at last had a taste of how other people felt around him.

They hadn’t really talked in the elevator down. Or rather, Cesc had tried to make small talk, but Silva was engrossed in his text messages or some sort of phone game and paid him little mind. He’d finally pocketed the damn thing once the elevator doors opened to let them out, shooting Cesc a questioning look.

“Sorry, were you talking to me?”

Cesc wanted to scream. Instead he managed to look only mildly exasperated. “You were the only one in the elevator, Silva. Jeez. You’re gonna give me a complex. I swear, no one ever listens to anything I have to say!”

“What were you saying?” Silva asked, compulsively reaching into his pocket to touch his phone.

“I don’t even want to tell you now. You’ve ruined it.” Cesc said, pouting dramatically. His whole demeanor changed though, the very moment he spotted Iker. Gone was the frown, replaced quickly by a big, toothy smile. He grabbed Silva by the wrist and tugged him toward Iker’s table, wide open except for the captain himself. “Hey, Iker.”

The keeper looked up at the pair, nodding at Silva before his attention fell to Cesc. He couldn’t help it. He had to smile back. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Silva said, cocking his head with a perplexed little curve to his lips. “I like your hair, Iker. Did you do something to it?”

Iker tried not to turn red as he reached up to touch his hair. It was hard and spiky. Like a porcupine. _Of course_ Silva would like it. “No. Not really. No.”

Cesc laughed brightly, reaching over to touch Iker’s hair with a wide palm while dropping into the seat beside him. “Iker, your hair! You look like a hedgehog!” He clapped his hands delightedly. “No, wait! You look like Villa! Ha!”

And just as soon as he said it, he regretted it. All those feelings of jealousy returned to him in a wave and he was quite suddenly aware of who they were to have breakfast with. His eyes narrowed slightly and he eyed Silva from the corner of his eyes. Silva seemed amused by the situation, but it was hard to tell with him. He wasn’t an open book the way Cesc was. Iker on the other hand… Cesc was full on scowling at Iker now, noticing that Iker was most certainly blushing.

“I do not!” Iker sputtered in protest, as if that was _the most_ offensive thing Cesc could have said.

“No he doesn’t.” Silva said flatly as he took the seat across from Iker. “He’s nothing like David."

“I just used a little too much, that’s all. It’s not a big deal. Besides, I’ll need to shower again anyways, so…” Iker glanced around the room, arms folded childishly. For once he was glad that his team was full of unprofessional slackers because aside from Xavi and Carles, the entire dining hall was empty except their table. This meant this embarrassing chapter of his life could be quickly forgotten.

He was a little concerned by Cesc’s sudden mood drop, though. He’d seemed so cheerful a moment ago and now he was huffing like a spoiled kid who didn’t get the treat he wanted for his birthday. This brief moment might be a warning for Iker not to involve himself with someone so young. After all, the last thing he wanted was to date a moody little brat. He already had to deal with Sergio as his best friend and teammate twice over. He didn’t need his life further derailed by adding another younger guy to his already insane life.

For his part, Silva too noted Cesc’s shift in demeanor, changing the subject. “So. The match. Any insight you feel like imparting to us, Iker? It’s a friendly, but it’s not going to be a cake walk.”

The keeper tore his gaze from the still pouting Cesc. His expression clearly read _thanks_ , and Silva’s lips twitched slightly in unspoken acknowledgement. “I have some ideas, sure. You know, it’s all about momentum. We build it up now and we’ll be unstoppable for next week.”

Iker was about to launch into a full on analysis of his own personal strategic views as the rest of the team trickled into the dining room, some chattering and laughing, some bitching and moaning, others in exhausted silence. Cesc sighed pressing his chin into his fists. What a mistake this whole breakfast thing was. Now he was never going to get a few minutes alone with Iker to bask in his presence and beg for his undivided attention. It was all so unfair. He huffed a little and decided to tune Iker and Silva out. Eyes narrowed, he stood up, almost knocking his chair over backwards in the process. It was by divine intervention that he didn’t cause more of a scene. Of course they were too engrossed in this _thrilling_ conversation to pay him any mind. “I’m going to get some food.”

Silva gave Cesc a thin smile. Iker turned to look at him, expression somewhere between hurt and hopeful as he nodded. “We’ll be here.”

Cesc pouted as soon as Iker’s back was turned and he headed straight for the buffet line. He couldn’t believe how badly this was all going, and on a match day too. He should be focusing on his playing, on performing well, even if it was just a friendly. There was no room for heartache in football! And yet, here he was, pining away for stupid Iker, jealous out of his mind over David Silva (of all people!) and rudely holding up the buffet line as he stared forlornly at a tray of toast.

“Ahem.” Gerard cleared his throat loudly, poking his shoulder from behind. “Earth to Fàbregas. Just grab a slice of toast and move on. Hurry up, man. My omelette is getting cold.”

He didn’t even have it in him to get Gerard his attempt at a clever come back. Instead he just flopped a few slices onto his plate with a deflated sigh and shuffled away. Geri was still mad at him, clearly, so what was the point in sticking around?  He didn’t return to Iker’s table, though. Instead, he cast his eyes around the room for an open spot, any open spot, and settled for the open spot across from Ramos, next to Torres. He said nothing as he sat down, either oblivious to Sergio’s wide eyed protests or simply opting not to respond.

“Excuse you, Francesc, but who said you could sit here? No one invited you here. Now scram.” Sergio tilted his head, imploring Cesc to grow a brain and leave, as he was _obviously_ discussing something important and super personal with Fernando, thank you very much.

Cesc’s reply came not in words. He instead shoved an overly large chunk of buttered toast into his mouth and began to chew.

Fernando gave Sergio an incredulous look. Sergio was immediately shamed into silence. “Sese, don’t be so mean.” He then turned his warm smile to Cesc. “Don’t listen to him, Cesc. He’s just in a bad mood. Probably something to do with a girl.” Fernando laughed. Sergio fumed. Cesc ate his toast.

“Don’t you want to go sit with _Iker_?” The Andalusian tapped his finger on the table impatiently.

Cesc choked on his toast. Shit. Shit shit shit. Was he _that_ obvious? Did everyone know he had the hots for Iker? If Sergio knew, then everyone else had to know, too! And then they’d all figure out that Iker was harboring a secret and illicit love for Silva, who was clearly involved with Villa, and this entire mess would tear the team apart! This was all his fault! He swallowed hard, bread sticking to his throat as he tried to play it all off casually. “Wha—? What? _No_! Why would I want to— I mean, what makes you say that?”

“You two are friends, aren’t you?” That was from Fernando, who was delicately smearing a bit of jam on his toast.

“Oh, they’re friends alright,” Sergio interjected, pouring some hot sauce on his eggs. He snorted, glancing up at Fernando with a smirk. “You’ve seen the way Cesc pounces on him. He’s like a kitten and Iker’s a ball of yarn.”

Fernando giggled (yes, giggled) and raised his eyebrows at Sergio. Something unspoken was communicated there in that instant. “Cesc isn’t the only one doing the pouncing. Iker pounces too. We’ve all seen it.”

The Catalan was too embarrassed by the fact that this conversation was even _happening_ to fully register the contents and what was being said. “Um, hello! I’m sitting right here, you know!”

Sergio waved a hand to silence him. “I used to be his favorite, you know.”

“I know,” Fernando answered sympathetically. If Cesc didn’t know any better (and if he were paying attention to anyone besides himself) he might have mistaken Fernando’s wide-eyed expression for flirtation. “I’m sure you still are.”

“Oh, hardly. All I heard yesterday was ‘Cesc this’ and ‘Fàbregas that’ and ‘what do you suppose the weather is like in London this time of year?’ and ‘have you ever thought about visiting England, nene?’ He’s asking me about vacationing in England!”

Cesc gaped at Sergio, trying to comprehend exactly what the other man was implying. He opened his mouth to inquire, but Fernando spoke first, cutting him off. “You mean you’ve never considered taking a trip to England, Sese?”

“Oh, I fantasize about going to England all the time, Nando,” Sergio said, leering so suggestively Cesc thought he might gag. “But _those_ fantasies _never_ involve Iker.”

The look Cesc gave them was one of sheer horror. He _did not_ want to think about Sergio Ramos and his twisted fantasies involving Fernando Torres. At least, he didn’t want to think about that stuff in public. Yeesh. Face scrunched up, he gawked at the laughing pair of them for a moment before it slowly dawned on him that they weren’t only flirting with each other. Fernando and Sergio had armed him with some valuable information. Cesc perked up and dared look back at Iker and Silva. The two were still deep in conversation; Silva politely nodding, but slightly bored, Iker rambling a little, sheepishly laughing every so often. From a distance, it all looked so innocent. Nothing in either man’s body language hinted at anything more involved or familiar than teammates and casual friends. They weren’t openly flirting the way Sergio and Fernando were. They weren’t even sitting as close as half the other guys were to one another. When he stopped to think about it, the only person Silva ever really hung all over was Villa. Even on the pitch where emotions ran hot and everyone celebrated with whoever they could grab hold of, Silva always seemed to gravitate toward Villa. Sure he’d kiss and hug his other teammates, but he saved something else for Villa, something he never gave to the rest of the guys. Silva smiled at him. It was a shy, dopey, lovesick little smile. And Villa gave that same smile to Silva, each and every time. 'Look at me,’ that smile said. 'Love me. Love me like I love you. I love you. God help me, I love you.’ It was the exact same fucking smile Sergio and Fernando were sharing at the table beside Cesc. And it was the same smile he knew he had whenever he closed his eyes and thought about Iker.

Cesc closed his eyes and thought about Iker. He couldn’t help it. He’d tried so hard to not, he knew it was stupid, knew it was basically the dumbest thing he could do, and yet there was no backing out once his heart had opened up like that. It had started out so innocently. He was just eighteen when he was first called up and everyone around him was so famous and so talented and so amazing. He was starstruck, he’d be the very first to admit it. But he knew he belonged there on that team, so he set about making friends and fitting in. And despite being a kid, he found his niche. The younger guys were fun, like schoolmates he could play tricks with, and the older guys taught him how to be a better player and how to create plays. He took what they taught him and applied it on the pitch, not just for Spain, but for Arsenal too. He was more complete because he was part of that team at that time in his life.

But it wasn’t just that he’d learned professional skills or fun pranks to pull. Cesc learned a lot about himself in those earliest call ups. For example, he learned quite early on that Iker Casillas’ stare was even more intense in person than it was on TV. He learned that Iker liked to keep up the appearance of professionalism. He learned that Iker wanted to be seen as a mentor and a leader, even though Raúl was still in charge, so he didn’t have to have a stick up his ass all the time. And he learned that Iker liked to pick on the people he liked the most. He liked to tease, not in a mean way or anything, but he seemed to secretly crave attention of all kinds, even if it was negative. Cesc remembered the first time Iker’d made fun of him. The specifics of what Iker’d said were lost to him now. It was probably some joke about how he needed a haircut, which in hindsight was the truth. Cesc could only remember the way it felt when his heart dropped out of his chest and into the pit of his stomach and how hot his face felt, burning so furiously he was sure he matched his shirt. He remembered too the look in Iker’s eyes a moment later when he’d wrapped an arm around his shoulders, laugher darkly and telling him his kit looked good on him.

“Number eighteen, huh?” Iker’d laughed, tugging on Cesc’s hair playfully. “Eighteen for the eighteen year old.”

Cesc had turned his head to look at Iker, to sneer at him maybe, or otherwise engage in his game. At least he’d wanted to tell him to stop being such a prick, but instead their eyes met for half of a second, and in that instant, Cesc fell in love. Or maybe it was lust. He was young, he wasn’t sure. Either way, he knew he wanted Iker. He didn’t care if Iker was controlling or snide or a bit of a dick sometimes. He didn’t mind the territorial big brother act he pulled out of his ass from time to time either. Cesc wanted Iker’s attention. It didn’t even have to be all of his attention, just so long as he could be the center of his world for a few days every couple of months. All Iker had done was look at him and he was a mess. It was absolutely embarrassing, and for some stupid reason, Cesc was okay with it.

It had never even occurred to him that now, three-some years later, Iker had actually felt something for him too, besides mild annoyance and an obligation to tolerate him due to their status as teammates. Yeah, they were friends, but were they anything more than that? Had Iker made a move in all that time? No. He hadn’t. All he’d done was spend time with Cesc whenever they were in the same city, talk to him on the phone when he could, tease him about his hair during call ups, wrestle with him sometimes, and above all else, watch over him like he was the most important person on the team. Iker didn’t even do that for Sergio, and Cesc knew they were best friends. Maybe it was because Sergio had a good three inches on Cesc and could easily handle himself. Or maybe it was because Iker and Sergio were with each other constantly, both with La Seleccíon and Real Madrid, so Iker knew what Sergio could handle more intimately than anyone else did. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because Cesc’s well being mattered to him. Cesc had never entertained that thought before, not with any level of seriousness anyway. But now, after what Sergio and Fernando had said, and how they’d snickered to each other, not even caring that he was right there with them… well, it was very tempting to let the idea in for a moment or two.

He opened his eyes and leaned in toward the other men, who were still engaged in their ridiculous version of flirting. Before either could back away, he grabbed each of them by a hand, looking between Fernando and Sergio with large, imploring eyes. Sergio almost laughed at the sight of him. Cesc looked like a sad cartoon animal with his face like that.

“Does he like me?” Cesc asked, looking straight at Sergio.

Sergio _did_ laugh then. “What do _you_ think? I mean _really_.”

“Sese, be nice.”

“I’m being plenty nice,” Sergio insisted, looking at Fernando again. “It’s not my fault these guys are dumber than planks of wood. ‘Does he like me?’ Are you kidding me right now? Yes, Cesc. Iker likes you. How is it not fucking obvious to you? I mean, _come on_!”

“That’s not fair, Sergio. You know Iker better than he does. How’s he supposed to know when Iker’s being difficult out of love or when he’s being difficult out of spite? I can’t even tell sometimes. You can’t expect Cesc to know instinctively whether or not Iker loves him.”

“Ugh, you _had_ to bring _love_ into this, didn’t you. That’s your word, Nando, not mine.” Sergio rolled his eyes, launching into affectionate banter with Fernando again. Cesc slumped back in his chair, letting go of them both.

Love. Love? Did Iker _love_ him? No, no way was that possible. A crush, maybe. Some affection, definitely. But love? It was too much to hope for, to think that the guy he’d fallen for at age eighteen might love him too. That was just too much.

“Iker loves me?”

Sergio sighed, shoving a hand into his hair. “Great, Nando. Now you’ve done it.”

“Someone had to make a move. Why not me?”

“Ugh.  Listen to yourself.  Who do you think you are?  Xabi?” 

Cesc didn’t even stick around to hear the rest of their exchange. He was already on his feet, floating back toward the table where he’d left Iker and Silva. Except there were others there now, too. In the interim, Xabi and Marcheno had joined them, and the four of them were chatting about something or other. A novel, from the sounds of it. A novel. It was so ridiculous, Cesc wanted to laugh. Instead he stood behind Iker as quietly as he could, waiting for a lull in their conversation before he cleared his throat and jumped right in.

“Uh, um, Iker?” He coughed and tried to look cool.

Iker turned around quickly to face him, face unhelpfully difficult to read. “Cesc, hey. I didn’t think you were coming back so I asked — “

Cesc smiled and shook his head. The other guys carried on their discussion without missing a beat. Only Silva seemed to notice that he’d returned. Cesc nodded at him, too. “It’s alright. I was just hoping we could talk. Just for a minute. Like out in the hallway or something, I don’t know.”

The older man was on his feet before Cesc could explain that it wasn’t a pressing matter or anything, that it would be okay if Iker was busy. But Iker was already reaching for his arm to lead him to someplace a bit more private. This was the second time in as many days that Cesc had asked him to talk. It was finally sinking it that maybe Iker should shut up and actually do it.

The Catalan held his breath for a moment as they walked toward the door. A few of their teammates were watching them leave together and Cesc couldn’t help but grin with pride. He was still himself, after all. They were a half second from leaving the dining room when del Bosque appeared, smack dab in front of them, clapping his hands together and commanding all eyes on him. He had an important announcement to make.

Obediently, Iker let go of Cesc’s arm and the two of them stood at attention. The rest of the room went silent, too.

“I’m so pleased to inform you all that David Villa has been cleared to participate in the match this evening.”

There were some murmurs of surprise and a few stray questions from the gathered crowd.

“The doctors assured us it was a mild case of food poisoning and dehydration, but he’s right as rain now. And we’re all so happy he’ll be back with us tonight. Of course, this means there will be some last minute adjustments, but that’s none of your concern. Your job is to win this friendly. Warm up for the tournament, gentlemen. I need you in top shape for next week.” And with that, the team was dismissed and ordered to report of squad meetings immediately.

Iker gave Cesc an apologetic smile as their teammates began to stream past them and into the hallway. “After the match we’ll talk, okay? Deal?”

Cesc bit his lip and nodded. “Deal.”

They parted ways then, Cesc dragging his feet as he went to join the other midfielders. Silva caught up with him a few moments later. He still had a vaguely predatory look in his eyes, like he’d been watching and stalking this situation with Iker from afar. More so than that, though, Silva looked happy. Cesc could see the joy in his eyes, hidden behind that aloof way he held himself. There was true happiness there, and Cesc was pretty sure he knew exactly why Silva was so happy. “Come on, Cesc. Let’s have a good day today.”


	26. Chapter Twenty-Five

The morning training sessions went just about as well as could be expected. They were really more focused on strategic plans than form and physical performance, but the guys were loose and ready to play once it came time to board the bus to the arena for the evening game. Cesc was hoping he’d get a chance to talk with Iker on the ride over, but no such luck. Iker had boarded well before he did and as such was seated beside Güiza. He tried to mask his disappointment as he walked past Iker’s row and dropped into the open seat next to Juan.

“What’s the matter, Cesc?” Juan asked, pushing his headphones off so he could engage with the moody looking Gunner.

“Nothing’s the matter. I’m just tired.” Cesc answered quickly, eyes fixed on the back of Iker’s head three rows ahead. “Raúl and Álvaro were... watching TV or something this morning and it was so loud it woke me and Silva up.”

Juan shook his head, chuckling a little, “That’s just Raúl for you. Too bad David wasn’t around last night. I think his favorite hobby is telling Raúl where to shove it, especially where Silva is involved. Can’t have Silva missing out on his beauty sleep you know.” He laughed again, fondness in his voice.

Cesc stifled a yawn, turning around quickly to see Silva sitting near the back of the bus, absorbed in his texting. For the moment, Cesc’s own personal melodrama was forgotten in favor of sorting out whatever was going on between Silva and Villa. It had bugged him for years, trying to figure out if they were or they weren’t. Sometimes he was certain they were lovers, other times he thought it must just be a very tight bromance. And though he’d played beside them for years now, he didn’t get the daily ins and outs of their dynamic the way their Valencian teammates did. He turned back quickly to look at Juan again. “You’re their club teammate, you’ve got a front row to their antics, Mata. Are they really like that all the time?”

“Who? The Davids?”

Cesc nodded.

Juan’s face lit up conspiratorially and he leaned in close, just in case anyone was listening in. “They’re worse, I think. Not to rag on them, because they’re my friends, but they can be a little…”

“Clingy?” Cesc offered. “Completely up in each other’s business?”

“I was going to say codependent but that works too.”

Codependent? That was a new one. And it was a negative one. He wasn’t sure he liked or agreed with that assessment of Silva and Villa’s relationship, but he was willing to hear Juan out at least. Cesc raised his eyebrows, signaling Juan to continue.

“I don’t mean that in a clinical way,” Juan clarified. “I mean like they feed off each other, encourage each other.”

“We all encourage each other.” Cesc felt it was important to point that out. They were all teammates. They all cared for one another and wanted to see everyone else succeed. That trait was not unique to Silva and Villa.

Juan shook his head. “Yeah but they do it on a whole other level. The way they move together, it’s like they operate by instinct. It’s like they’ve got some sort of weird psychic bond that no one else can see or understand. I sure as hell don’t understand it and it’s right in front of my face all the time. Tell me you know what I mean, Cesc.”

“I know what you mean,” he answered. And he did. And he was suddenly quite jealous. How wonderful that must be, to feel so in tune with someone else they you didn’t have to even look for them, you already knew they’d be right where you needed them. The Davids were so lucky to have found someone on their exact wave length, someone to drive them to be stronger, tougher, faster, more complete. No wonder Silva was so concerned over Villa. He must’ve felt so lost on the pitch without him, even during a training session. Cesc wished he could find someone like that. Then he realized, as he’d been pouting over Silva and Villa and their mysterious connection, that Iker had turned around in his seat and was looking back at him. His heart skipped a beat and he gave the keeper a huge grin. Iker returned it, their eyes locking for several seconds before Güiza poked his arm and he turned back around. Cesc averted his gaze then too, looking quickly back at Juan, slightly pink in the cheeks.

If Juan noticed that little exchange, he was polite enough not to rub it in Cesc’s face. Instead, he sounded almost wistful as he fiddled with his headphones. “It must be really nice knowing that someone’s got your back like that. It’s not like we’re not all friends, you know, but there’s no breaking into that. There’s no splitting those two up. And I’d hate to be the idiot who tried it.”

Cesc nodded. Whoever tried to come between Villa and Silva was a fool indeed. “Yeah, you’re right. They belong together. Those guys are like peas in a pod.”

“Or sprinkles on a donut.” The other man laughed, putting on his headphones as he settled against the window to tune out the world.

‘Yeah,’ Cesc thought dreamily as he stared at Iker’s profile up ahead. ‘Like sprinkles on a donut.'

—

There was no mistaking David Silva’s elation when he disembarked from the bus and found himself face to face with David Villa. The younger man’s entire demeanor brightened as he pushed past the others and trotted up to the waiting Villa, pausing shyly before him as the older man slung a carefree arm over Silva’s shoulder. The other men clamored around Villa too, offering greetings and thanks for his speedy recovery.

“It was just dehydration,” he said confidently, falling in with the rest of the group as they headed for the locker room. “I told them all I needed was some electrolytes and I’d be fine. I’d have been out of there last night if they’d just listened to me the first time.”

“Good,” Riera said, speaking for the group. “Because we’re counting on you, Maravilla. It’s the last friendly before the cup—”

“No need to remind us,” Cesc called out, groaning emphatically.

“ _And_ we need you in top form, Villa.” Riera summarized. Several of the other men grunted in agreement. Villa smirked.

“We _all_ need to be in top form,” Iker corrected him. “Think of this match as dress rehearsal for next week. Now let’s get dressed. Come on, guys.”

The men whooped and cheered and set about dressing for the friendly. Silva stuck close to Villa’s side as they changed.

“You called it,” the Canarian said softly, glancing at Villa sideways as he adjusted his boots. “I knew you’d play tonight.”

Villa looked over at him briefly the ghost of a scowl teasing at his lips as he fussed with his hair. “You didn’t doubt me, did you?”

“Not even for a second.”

Villa grinned at that, smile wild and toothy as he reached over to fondly ruffle the younger man’s hair. “My first goal tonight will be yours, Silvi.”

Silva beamed at him.

From across the room, Cesc observed their interaction. They made it look so easy, the way they were so comfortable with one another. He envied that closeness, longed for it, ached for that level of understanding. It just wasn’t fair. Why didn’t anyone feel that way about him? He was prepared to spend a minute or two sulking over his situation when he heard someone clearing their throat behind him. He jumped, spinning around to come face to face with Iker.

“Iker!” He squeaked, unable to bite back his smile.

The older man looked him up and down, raising his eyebrows. “Are you okay?”

“Huh? Me? Oh yeah, I’m fine. I was just… you know, letting my mind wander.”

Iker nodded, though he didn’t quite seem convinced. “You should focus on the match, Cesc.”

The younger man sighed. He knew he had to focus. He never had a problem with that, though, and he didn’t need to be reminded. “I know, I know. I am focusing.”

“Good,” Iker smiled. “Because I was thinking, afterward we could grab a bite to eat or something. I’m pretty sure I owe you a talk.”

Cesc’s eyes lit up and he nodded quickly. “I’d love that. I mean, I’d really like that a lot.”

Iker was pleased Cesc seemed to pleased. He still couldn’t quite explain it, but it made him so happy whenever Cesc got excited over the things he said and did. He felt like he was the center of Cesc’s world. It was an ego boost, to be sure, but it felt like more than that. That amount of adoration felt a lot like love, and Iker loved feeling loved. “Meet me at the hotel bar at midnight then. We’ll figure out what we’re doing from there.”

“Okay,” the Catalan practically purred, staring openly as Iker walked away. Oh yeah, he had a date tonight with Iker. His life couldn’t get any sweeter.

“Hot date tonight, eh?” Cesc was torn from his internal celebrating by the annoying drawl of Sergio Ramos. He rolled his eyes at Sergio who was practically prancing around him, suggestively waggling his hips. “What did I tell you, Francesc? Iker’s got a crush. And all it took was a little push for him to make a move.”

“Hush,” Fernando scolded, approaching the two of them from the opposite side. “You meddle too much. Besides, _I_ was the one who did the pushing, not you.”

“And who did the pushing last night, Nando?”

Fernando blushed, wagging a finger scoldingly, “Don't be such a brat. Leave them alone, Sese.”

Sergio pouted at Fernando, reaching over to gently slap at his cheeks. “Oh please. If it wasn’t for me, these two would be sitting alone in their rooms, sadly whining to whoever would listen about how pathetic they are and how much they like each other and how much they want to jump each other’s bones. It’s fucking annoying. You know it. I know it. Albiol over there knows it.”

Raúl gave them a confused look from across the locker room. “Huh?”

“See what I mean?”

“Ahem,” Cesc interjected with a guarded hiss. “I’m literally standing right here next to you, you know. And would you keep it down! We’re not going on a d-date! We’re just eating! God!”

Sergio didn’t seem to notice. Instead he was winding around Fernando, encircling him again and again like a shark in shallow water. “And now they’re going to live happily ever after. Or at least they’ll get a happy ending tonight. What did I tell you? I’m a genius!”

Fernando shook his head, though he was still smiling. “Enough teasing, Sese. Ignore him, Cesc. He's being lewd.”

“All right, all right. Party pooper.” The Andalusian huffed, weaving around Cesc once for good measure before slinking off. Nando gave Cesc an apologetic shrug as he followed along behind. Cesc felt half a dozen pairs of eyes on him as he gave a frantic smile, then scampered off to get some fresh air before the match.

Across the locker room, Geri slammed his bag shut and stomped away alone.

—  
  
 

Raúl sat down on the bench beside Álvaro, mindful to keep his usual distance from the other defender.  “Hey.  How are you feeling?”

Álvaro grunted a little, shaking his head.  He seemed pale, tired, decidedly under the weather.  “I feel like shit,” he murmured as he carefully tugged his shirt over his head.  As he did, Raúl got a good look at the scabbed over bite marks on Álvaro’s left shoulder.  The younger man winced, glancing around quickly to be sure that no one else had seen them.

“I knew this was a bad idea,” he whispered guiltily, words coming out in a jumble.  “Fuck, Varo, I think it’s maybe infected or something.  Are you sure you’re okay to play?  I can get one of the physios if you need, tell them you need to sit out or— ”

“Don’t even think about it,” Álvaro said firmly, taking hold of Raúl’s arm.  “I asked you to do it.  I wanted it.  I still want it.  And I’ll be fine, okay?  Just leave it alone.”

Raúl pursed his lips, then gave a slow nod.  He felt so uneasy about it, he thought he might be sick.  He hadn’t exactly _wanted_ to bite Álvaro… Well, okay, on a purely needs based physiological level he did, but what his instinct wanted, his heart and mind did not.  He loved Álvaro, he didn’t want to see him cursed and suffering as he was.  But he couldn’t say no to him.  He’d thought about it, sure, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like a halfway decent idea.  And the more it seemed like a halfway decent idea, the less likely he was to say no and mean it.  

Silva would be mad.  Silva would be livid.  He knew that, and he didn’t want to disappoint his friend, but there was a lot about lycanthropy that Silva didn’t know or understand or was purposely keeping from him.  Like, why hadn’t Silva told him that werewolves could control their transformations and change at will, even without a full moon?  That seemed like kind of a major thing, and something that should have been disclosed to him right away.  Instead, it had taken Chori years to master it, without any help or guidance from David.

If David was allowed to keep secrets and make major decisions, then so was Raúl.  And in the end, Raúl wanted Álvaro to be a werewolf too, and with Álvaro asking— no _demanding_ that it be so, Raúl saw no real reason to deny him.

Except of course the recovery time.  Even a small bite from a werewolf was still a bite from a werewolf.

As the other men departed the locker room, Raúl looped his arm around Álvaro’s waist and leaned in to give him a brief kiss on the forehead.  “I love you.”

Álvaro smiled then, a little strained, but cocksure as ever.  “I know you do, Chori.  Now help me stand up.  We’ve got a friendly to win.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter... I kind of got overcome by Carraville feels and ended up writing an epic by accident lol.


	27. Chapter Twenty-Six

**October 2008**  
Brussels  
  
  
It wasn’t like it was a regular thing or anything. They had different lives, they lived in different countries. But it sort of became a habit to find each other during call ups and steal away together. The second time it happened had been between concentrations. They were meant to be resting. Instead, Raúl had somehow ended up on his knees, sucking Álvaro off in the shower, living for the thrill of Álvaro’s heady cries echoing off the tile walls. He almost worried that someone might hear them, but realized as he took Álvaro’s balls into his mouth that he kind of didn’t really care. Let them hear. The sounds Álvaro made were too perfect, and he made them just for Raúl.  
  
The older man left quickly afterward, patting Raúl’s cheek fondly before heading for the door. They didn’t speak much during their training, hardly spoke at all during the rest of that call up. But Raúl could feel he was being watched, could sense Álvaro’s eyes on him.  
  
The third and fourth times proceeded in much the same manner— disappearing away for something frantic and unfeeling while the rest of the team wasn’t paying attention. Raúl fucked Álvaro up against the wall in his hotel room one evening, bruising and scratching him as the sound of Álvaro’s moans filled his ears. The next time, after they’d won, he fucked him in his hotel bed, biting possessively at his throat as he thrust into him, left his chest purple and blue, then helplessly watched as he calmly dressed, got out his phone from his back pocket, and left.   
  
He always felt dirty afterwards. Not because he was fucking a another man. No, that wasn’t it. Sure it had been a little weird to wrap his head around, as he’d never put much thought into his sexuality. He liked girls, he dated girls. And now he was sleeping with a guy. That was different, but it didn’t bother him. He could accept this newfound aspect of himself. It was the dismissiveness that got him. It was that Álvaro, for as much as he begged and moaned and melted under Raúl’s touch, wasn’t exactly an affectionate person. They never kissed, not like people kissed in movies, anyway. And as soon as they were finished, he’d leave, and Raúl would be left all alone.  
  
… Not that he was some sap who needed to cuddle afterwards or something, but damn. It made him feel used!  
  
The fifth time was late in the autumn. Somehow they’d been assigned to room together. Raúl grinned foolishly at his good fortune, glancing over to lock eyes with Álvaro, who was once again engrossed in his phone. Raúl frowned, pouted, and dragged his feet toward the elevators. But once they were alone together…  _well_.  
  
Álvaro followed him to their room, and as soon as the door fell shut behind him, he adopted a sort of predatory smirk. “Don’t act like this is torture, Chori. I know you’re happy to see me.”  
  
“I  _was_ ,” Raúl said, glancing back from the bed he’d claimed. “I wasn’t the one ignoring you, Tostadas.”  
  
Unperturbed, Álvaro joined him on the bed, sitting down close enough to him that their thighs brushed together. He slung his arms around Raúl’s shoulders, unasked, but not unwanted, and he leaned in close, as if he might brush his lips against the younger man’s jaw. He paused though, hovering just before he made contact, then pulled away, eyebrows furrowing in concern. Hesitating, he reached to touch Raúl’s neck, to trace his fingers gently over his skin.  
  
“What are you—?” Raúl asked, turning his head sharply. Álvaro kept staring at his neck, expression unreadable to him.  
  
“I never noticed these before.” He said at last, looking away from Raúl’s throat to make eye contact with him.   
  
“Hm?” Raúl looked confused.  
  
“Those scars.”   
  
“Oh.” Raúl gulped. “Yeah.” He  _really_  didn’t want to talk about those. They were an unhappy reminder of his fate, staring back at him anytime he caught a glimpse of his reflection. He’d taken to wearing high necklines all the time, even though they looked stupid and were impractically warm. Better endure the physical discomfort than the emotional pain.  
  
“That’s from the dog?”  
  
What a stupid question. Raúl rolled his eyes at that, as if to say  _really_ , Álvaro?  _Really_? But as he did, he noticed something in the older man’s expression that he’d never seen before. Was that actual, genuine concern in his eyes? Like, real human emotion? It wasn’t that he’d assumed Álvaro was incapable, rather Raúl had more or less assumed that he was unworthy of Álvaro’s time and attention. What else could explain the lack of… well, connection every time they had sex? He’d spent a lot of time watching Álvaro’s expressions in the time they’d known each other, and especially after they’d started sleeping together, and he was pretty sure he’d never seen that look in his eyes before. Moreover, Álvaro didn’t flinch or falter, even when met with Raúl’s impatient non-verbal reply. He looked at him, studied his eyes, then the scars on his throat, reaching back to touch the raised, pale skin there again.  
  
“Yeah. That’s from the dog.” Raúl said finally, throat vibrating under Álvaro’s fingertips. “That’s where it got hold of me.”  
  
Álvaro didn’t speak for a moment, instead examining the nearly year old marks, thumbing at them softly. He drew in a long breath, finally meeting Raúl’s gaze again. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that happened to you.”  
  
The younger man blinked. “Yeah. I am too.”  
  
“You’re fine now.” It was less of a question, more of a statement of reassurance. Or at least that’s how Raúl interpreted it.  
  
“Yeah, I’m okay.”   
  
Álvaro nodded, then he leaned in, inhaling as he pressed his lips to the white scars, kissing Raúl’s throat almost reverently. He was gentle, affectionate, almost loving, if that was even possible, and Raúl shivered as his breath skirted over his skin. Slowly, leisurely, he kissed his way up the younger man’s jaw, at last finding his lips. Álvaro’s mouth was warm, lips working to delicately part Raúl’s. It was so slow, so deliciously slow, no teeth, no biting. Just their mouths moving together, until it became too much. The Valencian broke their kiss suddenly, panic in his eyes.  
  
“You don’t have to…” Raúl started, trailing off. His fingers were already threaded in Álvaro’s hair. He hadn’t realized what he was doing. He also hadn’t realized how hot it was in the room. Or maybe he was just blushing, bright red as a flame.  
  
Álvaro pulled back again, not understanding. “What are you…?”  
  
“You don’t have to treat me like I’m breakable now. Just because you’ve seen those scars. I’m not fragile. I don’t need you to act like this now.” Raúl said, stuttering only a little. His cheeks were blazing pink. Álvaro laughed. The younger man scowled. “Don’t laugh at me, Álvy!”   
  
“I’m not!” He insisted, cupping Raúl’s cheek, grinning still. “You don’t want me to kiss you? Okay, fine. I won’t kiss you. There.”  
  
“It’s not that!” Raúl squawked, eyes huge.  
  
Álvaro laughed again. “Then you  _do_  want me to kiss you?”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Raúl whined. “I mean, I wanted you to kiss me  _before_.”  
  
It was Álvaro’s turn to frown, and he rocked back slightly. “I didn’t know that.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you’re kind of an airhead.”   
  
Álvaro scoffed, totally offended. “ _Please_! You’re one to talk!”  
  
“I am talking! So listen!” Raúl was highly insistent, and Álvaro folded his arms around himself, waiting for him to continue. “Listen to me. I want to know something, Álvy.”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“I want to know what you’re doing with me.”  
  
Álvaro raised his eyebrows. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”  
  
“You… I mean,  _we_  keep sleeping together. And then you leave. I don’t like it.” Raúl spoke softly, a bit embarrassed by everything. Still, he watched Álvaro closely, to gage his reaction.   
  
“You never said anything about it.” Álvaro said quickly, expression fixed as he stared back at Raúl. “I didn’t think you’d want me to stay.”  
  
“Why would you think that?  _Why_?”   
  
There was a flash of something vulnerable in Álvaro’s eyes, though it lasted for only a split second before it faded into a superior looking smile. “No one ever wants me to stay, Chori.”  
  
“I wanted you to stay.” His voice was just above a whisper. “You’re my friend, and I want you to stay.”  
  
“Then I’ll stay.” They were rooming together anyway, but that was beside the point.  
  
“But I don’t want this to change things.”  
  
Álvaro snorted, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “What are you talking about— “   
  
“Can’t we just fuck it out like we always do? And when we’re done, you chill here with me instead of bolting off to wherever the hell you go to go post stupid shit on Twitter? I know, I know, you’d rather play around on your phone than hang out with me, but it’s kind of messed up, Álvaro, don’t you think?”  
  
The older man gaped at him, like he was trying to process exactly what was being asked of him, failing miserably at first. Then, it slowly came over him. “So you want me to fuck you like I don’t care about you, then hold you afterwards and tell you that I do. Is that it? Did I get it right?”  
  
Raúl was blushing again and he looked vaguely sick. He swallowed hard, a lump caught in his throat. “I don’t want you to fake anything.”  
  
“Good. Because I won’t.”  
  
Álvaro’s expression was difficult for him to decipher. Raúl thought he knew him pretty well by then. They might not get a ton of face to face time that wasn’t either spent on the pitch or spent in the throes of a sexual encounter, but he figured he could suss out a lot of what Álvaro was thinking. He generally could,  _before_  they’d started fucking, anyway. Now, it was harder. Reading him was like trying to see his reflection in a fogged up mirror. He got the broad strokes, but the nuances were still a mystery to him. He knew Álvaro, knew the bigger, bolder parts of his personality, but it was the details that were lost. He’d had to fill things in in his head, and the risk was always present that he might have gotten some things wrong. And for some foolish reason, Raúl had allowed himself to become attached to his fantasy version of Álvaro; a version of the man who never truly existed. Not completely anyway. The man before him resembled his imaginary lover, but the subtleties weren’t all there. It made his whole heart  _ache_  to realize that fact.  
  
“You won’t do that?” Raúl’s voice was hollow. Sad. “You wouldn’t… stay with me, Álvaro?”  
  
The older man looked surprised then and he shook his head emphatically. “No, no, I…” He started laughing then, dragging his hands over his cheeks. “I meant I wouldn’t fake it. I wouldn’t have to. God this is so stupid, Chori.”  
  
“It’s not stupid,” he said quietly.  
  
“Yes it is. You want me to stay with you, so I’ll stay. I want to stay with you. And I want you to fuck me and bite me and make me fucking scream your name. So you can. And you’d better. Because no one’s ever fucked me like that, Chori. No one but you.” Álvaro sighed, like it was the most simple thing in the world. “We can do both, you know. It’s not one or the other.”   
  
“I know, but— ”  
  
“Relax. I like it. You like it. We’re consenting adults, and we’re friends, right? So let’s just enjoy this and don’t think about it so hard. You’ll get wrinkles. Or you’ll hurt yourself.”  
  
Raúl snorted, then gave Álvaro a small smile, one which only grew as the older man reached over to card his fingers through Raúl’s hair. “So you say, Tostadas.”   
  
Álvaro gave Raúl’s hair a sharp tug, and they went on from there.  
  
  
—  
  
Álvaro didn't figure it out.  Raúl told him that night, after they’d had the roughest, fiercest sex he’d ever had in his life. Álvaro wasn’t the only one purple and blue. They’d grappled with each other as they fucked and fought for dominance, Álvaro  _still_  managing to dictate everything while Raúl loved every fucking minute of it. Afterward, after they’d both come so hard they were both seeing stars, they were in a mess of limbs on the bed with Álvaro pinning Raúl down. Once he regained his senses, he began to kiss his throat, running his tongue over the pale lines of his scars.  
  
Raúl couldn’t stand it anymore. He couldn’t stand Álvaro kissing him like that and not being able to talk about what happened to him or how it had altered his perception of himself and the entire fucking universe. So he grabbed Álvaro by the shoulders, sat himself upright, and told him the whole story of what happened, beginning to end. And Álvaro sat quietly, didn’t utter a single word. He just listened. And when Raúl explained that he was a werewolf, Álvaro didn’t even react at all.  
  
It was unnerving.  
  
“Say something? Please?”  
  
“What do you want me to say?”  
  
Raúl spoke without hesitation. “Tell me you believe me.”  
  
“Okay,” Álvaro said. “I do. I believe you.”  
  
Raúl was floored. “You— what? You do?”  
  
“Of course I do.”   
  
“But why? Isn’t this the most bizarre thing you’ve ever heard in your whole life? Isn’t it fantastic beyond reason?”  
  
“Well yes,” Álvaro shrugged. “It’s unrealistic and very much out there, but…”  
  
“But what?” Raúl asked.  
  
“But I’ve never known you to be a liar, Chori. You are probably the most sincere person I know. So if you say you are a werewolf, then it must be so.” That had not been the reaction Raúl was expecting, not by a long shot and it took him a moment to pick his jaw up off the floor. When he finally regained his senses, Álvaro was smirking at him, hooking a finger under Raúl's stubbly chin. “It does explain quite a bit, though. Wild bastard.” 

“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?” Raúl asked, wide eyed.

The older man looked offended again.  “Why would I tell anyone?  I happen to have a vested interest in keeping you safe and sound, Raúlito.  Or did my cries of ecstasy mean nothing to you?  Nobody's ever fucked me like you do.  And besides, you're probably my best friend.  I'd like it if you stuck around for a while, yeah?”

The younger man didn’t blush that time.  Instead, he found could only watch in amazement as  Álvaro settled down beside him, a leg draped casually over his.  The older man somehow had his phone out and for a second Raúl was concerned about their private affairs ending up on Twitter.  But Álvaro only set his alarm before putting the device aside.   
  
“Wait.  Am I really your best friend?” 

Álvaro tilted his head so he could stare Raúl square in the eyes.  What that seriously all he got out of that?  “Yes, probably.  Does that surprise you?”

He shook his head and let out a hearty laugh.  “Not at all.  I was thinking the same thing, actually.”

“Don’t be such an airhead, Chori.” Álvaro managed to look proud as he fluffed one of the pillows and made himself comfortable.

Chori grinned and threw his arms around the reluctant Álvaro, holding him tight.  “You’re one to talk, Tostadas.” 

And that was that.  For the moment, anyway.   



	28. Chapter Twenty-Seven

The opening whistle blew at five o’clock and the men were off to a rousing start. Spain were up by two forty-five minutes in, a good result all things considered, and with the half about to end, they were prepared to double down and take charge in the second half. But then, it happened. A clash in the box, and suddenly someone was thrown to the ground. There was clamoring and shouting for a moment before the movement stopped and they look down in horror at Cesc, his head split open, blood gushing out. He didn’t get up, eyes closed shut as his face contorted in pain, and the medics were quickly waved on to tend to him. From the other end of the pitch, Iker could only watch in silent horror as Cesc was stretchered off the field, celebrating only a little as Villa converted the penalty and scored his hat trick.

The referee blew for half time and they streamed off the pitch to the dressing room. Iker hurried back, hoping to see Cesc in the hall, reassuring them all that it was just a superficial cut and nothing more. But Cesc wasn’t waiting for them. He was gone.

Iker cursed in despair.

“It will be fine,” Xavi said as he came up behind him, still bundled up in his jacket. Iker turned to look at him, wondering how and why Xavi always seemed to have everyone figured out. Xavi, mildly raised an eyebrow and looked down the hall. “He’s being stitched up. He’s very resilient.”

Iker knew that was true and simply nodded, watching as Xavi disappeared into the locker room. Tentatively he walked down the hall and around a corner toward where Xavi had been looking, and there he spotted them, the physios gathered around Cesc, wiping blood from his head, doing their best to stop the bleeding. Iker winced at the sight. He never was the squeamish type, but he didn’t revel in see anyone hurt, least of all not Cesc.

“Are you…?” His voice cracked a little as he spoke. Cesc’s eyes flicked toward him and he smiled easily.

“They’re going to take me to the hospital,” he said, sounding far more apologetic than he ought to have, all things considered. “It’s just a precaution, but…”

“I understand,” Iker said.

“Does it look bad?” Cesc asked, one of the physios gentling shushing him.

“Yes,” Iker said, because honestly, he looked terrible. And he looked scared, scared enough that Iker almost wished he’d lied to him and said it was all fine. “They’ll patch you up just fine, Cesc. You don’t need to worry at all, okay?”

Cesc managed a little smile, and Iker felt hopeful that maybe he was taking it to heart. “Okay. Are we still on for later?”

“You bet,” Iker said, smiling too. “I’m preemptively offering dessert. Ice cream. Or cake. Whatever you like. You deserve it.”

Cesc giggled, and the physio shushed him again, another waving Iker away. 

“The hotel bar at midnight, Cesc. Don’t forget.” Iker smirked at him as he ducked away.

Cesc whispered to himself, “I won’t.” 

—

It ended with a decisive win for Spain, there was no doubt about it, though they’d have to be careful not to let the victory go to their heads. They’d faced Azerbaijan, a team not especially noted for their footballing prowess. The win was good for their egos and morale going into the tournament, but they’d have to do even better if they expected to win the Confederations Cup.

Villa was savoring the moment though. After battling the flu or food poisoning or whatever it was, he’d come back to net a hat trick. He hadn’t felt to fit and alive in a long while. The only thing that might’ve made it better was if Silva had been out there on the pitch with him. But he wasn’t. Silva’d been on the bench the entire match, cheering him on, to be sure, but he wasn’t there with him, so it just wasn't the same.

They sat together on the ride back to the hotel though, Villa slumped back in contented exhaustion, Silva covertly watching him. Finally, Villa opened one eye, lips twitching in amusement. “What’s up? Have I got something on my face?”

“No,” Silva said, smiling slightly. “You just look so happy.”

“I am happy,” Villa grinned. “I feel incredible. I feel better than I have in a long, long time, David.”

“I’m glad. It’s good to see you like this.”

Villa wasn't so sure he was glad though. Not that they didn't share the joy of winning, it wasn't that. He was just sure that Silva was a little frustrated at not getting to play. Like, what was the point of traveling all the way to Baku just to sit on the bench? And now they had to travel to South Africa and be set to play in five days’s time. It was exhausting enough to make a journey like that, and it would be even worse to travel so long and so far just to sit unused. Villa sensed that anxiety in him, and more than anything he wanted to make it go away. But what could he do to help? How could he change anything? It wasn’t like Silva was in poor form or anything. Del Bosque just had his preferences, made the substitutions he’d wanted. Silva would get his chance, surely. He’d just have to be patient.

“We have to leave early in the morning,” Villa said, watching Silva’s expression. He knew he didn’t have to remind him of anything, though. “But we can still celebrate tonight.”

Silva raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “If this is your way of coming on to me—”

“Don’t be such a pervert. I was thinking room service and a movie. Jeez.”

Silva let out a soft laugh and inched closer to him, mindful that their teammates were still all around them. Someone would have to break the news to Cesc once he got back from the hospital that he’d need to find a new roommate, but all things considered, he was pretty fine with that. “Alright. It’s a date, Guaje.”

—

They’d been back at the hotel for about an hour when things started to get out of hand. Del Bosque had given them all a firm reminder that they needed to be in the hotel lobby at 6am sharp in order to make their flight. There was to be no shenanigans, no late arrivals, nothing, but he was kind enough not to impose a mandatory curfew on them for the night. “Just be responsible,” he said. “I trust you all to make good decisions tonight.”

Joan had gone to grab a bite to eat, so Iker had the room to himself for awhile with a few hours to kill before he was to meet Cesc— presuming Cesc got wasn’t spending the night in the hospital. He was worried, but not overly so after seeing him at half time, and he figured if there was bad news, he’d probably be one of the first to hear about it. He spent his time watching an old movie on TV and relaxing, and didn’t think much about anything. He settled back onto the bed and had nearly dozed off when someone knocked on his door.

“Iker! Open up! It’s me!” He bolted up, recognizing Sergio’s voice from the hall. Slightly disoriented, he went for the door, opening it to find he was face to face with Sergio and Fernando, and one other person: a slumped and pale looking Álvaro, propped between the two of them.

“What the hell’s wrong with him?” Iker asked automatically, ushering them into the room. The two half-carried, half-dragged Álvaro in and toward the bed as Iker shut the door behind them.

“Don’t ask us!” Sergio grunted as they flopped him down onto his back. “We found him like this.”

“He was in the elevator, on the floor, passed out,” Fernando said, carefully arranging pillows beneath Álvaro’s head, looking over him like a mother over a wayward child. 

“Is he drunk?” Iker narrowed his eyes, looming over him.

Sergio shrugged. Fernando shook his head, taking a seat on the bed beside Álvaro. “I don’t think so. I mean, _I’ve_ never seen him like this before.”

Iker leaned over him, to examine him closer. Álvaro was still breathing, which was step numero uno in assessing the situation. Iker didn’t smell any alcohol on him either. He pressed his hand to his forehead to check for fever. “Shit. He’s burning up.”

“I wonder if he caught whatever Villa had,” Fernando said. “What if he’s not well enough to travel?”

“He’s going to be fine,” Iker said firmly, reaching for the phone to call for room service. “He just needs some electrolytes.”

Sergio sank down on the other bed, shaking his head in amusement. “I hope you’re right, because he looks fucking terrible.”

In his listless sleep, Álvaro shivered a little. Fernando frowned and draped the duvet over him, pulling it right up to his chin. Iker watched them as he ordered up some sports drinks, fever reducers, and chicken soup.

“I’ll go see if I can find Chori, let him know what’s happened,” Fernando said quietly.

Iker nodded as he hung up the hotel phone. He didn’t notice that the clock next to it on the nightstand had just struck 1am.

—

An hour. That’s how long Cesc had been sitting in the hotel bar waiting for Iker. He’d tried to be patient, he really had, but he was absolutely about to lose his mind. He’d even hurried to get discharged from the hospital early just to make it back on time. And now he’d been stood up, neglected, abandoned. Iker had let him down.

“So much for him loving you, eh?” Cesc muttered to himself, finishing off his drink. It was probably unwise to be drinking at all, considering he’d just had stitches and everything, but fuck it. He was feeling hurt. He was allowed a few drinks to cope.

He compulsively checked his cell phone again, in case Iker had texted him with an excuse, a flat out rejection, any word at all. There was nothing. Cursing quietly, he started to stomp out of the bar, through the lobby, toward the elevator bay, with the sole intention of banging on Iker Casillas’s door and giving him a piece of his mind.

He pressed the call button, buzzed from liquor, slumping lazily against the wall as he waited for the elevator. Footsteps approached from behind, and he slowly rolled his head back to see Raúl beside him.

“Cesc! Hey! You’re alright!” Chori smiled at him warmly.

Cesc couldn’t help but smile back. “Hey. Yeah. I’m good.”

“That’s great. We were worried about you.”

“No need. Just some stitches. No brain damage or anything. I’m not any dumber than I already was.”

Raúl looked slightly put off but kept on smiling. “Good. Um, listen, I was wondering if you’ve seen Álvaro around maybe?”

Cesc’s face faltered slightly, eyebrows raised. “Lost your boyfriend, huh?”

“Um…”

“I haven’t seen him. But if I find him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

Raúl nodded, his smile totally forced this time. “Thanks. Get some sleep, Cesc. We fly out early, you know.”

The elevator doors slid open then and Cesc stepped in, giving Chori a wave. “You too.”

Sighing bitterly, he pressed the button for Iker’s floor, ready to give him a real piece of his mind once he got there. Who did Iker Casillas think he was anyway, trampling on his feelings like that? He was hurt, really and truly hurt at being stood up, especially after the shitty day he’d had at the arena. The least Iker could do was _tell_ him he didn’t want to meet him, instead of just breaking his promises.

The doors opened again and Cesc stepped out, glancing down the hall just in time to see someone emerging from Iker’s bedroom. It was Fernando. Wait… _Fernando_?! What was Fernando doing in Iker’s room at such a late hour?! There was absolutely _no_ excuse for that!

Fernando didn’t notice Cesc as he headed in the opposite direction down the hall, moving so quietly it was like he was tiptoeing, hoping he wouldn’t get caught. Cesc felt his blood going cold. That two-timing bitch! Fernando was fooling all of them! He’d convinced Cesc that Iker loved him, when the whole time he’d been messing around with Iker himself! Did Sergio know about this?! Did _everyone_ know?!

In a rage, he headed straight to the only person who could give him any sort of consolation. He went straight to Geri. Maybe Sergio would be there, maybe not, Cesc didn’t really care. He just needed to see Geri and tell him that he’d been right all along.

He banged on the door, not caring at all about the time or if anyone was asleep inside. He just needed to see Geri.

A moment later, his wish was granted and they were face to face. Geri looked tired, in his pajama pants, hair disheveled from sleep. He yawned, confused, “Cesc? What’s wrong?”

Cesc answered him in the only way that made any sense in the moment. He surged forward and kissed Geri hard on the mouth.

Geri stared at him, blue eyes wide and full of fear. “What was that for?”

Cesc wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Sorry, I…I…”

He shook his head, pulling Cesc into the room by his wrist. “You should’ve done that a long time ago.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Some liberties have been taken with the exact events of this game. Cesc really was injured and did require medical attention, but he was able to stay on until 48’. He got stitches at half time and said afterward: “It was a scare… a good scare. But the important thing is that it’s nothing more than a minor incident.”  
> \- The end result was 0-6, with goals from Villa (x3), Riera, Güiza, and Torres. The starting line up was Casillas, Arbeloa, Capdevila, Marchena, Albiol, Cazorla, Fàbregas, Riera, Alonso, Torres, & Villa.  
> \- There were six subs in the second half. Silva didn’t feature in the match at all, but Villa was subbed off at the half so they got to chill with each other! Strangely enough, Ramos was subbed on for Villa… Ramos ended up with an assist on Güiza’s goal!  
> \- You can watch all the highlights [here](https://youtu.be/okqcaczZsMM)!


	29. Chapter Twenty-Eight

They fucked quickly in the shower, in case Cesc was discharged early and made his way back to the room. It wasn’t exactly the most romantic sex of all time, but they’d both needed it, needed that release, that feeling of closeness renewed. After they’d both come, Villa spent an inordinate amount of time just kissing the back of Silva’s neck, letting the heat of the water fall over them, breathing him in, relaxing, sighing.

“I missed you last night,” he murmured into Silva’s ear. The younger man shivered, pressing back against him. “I could hardly sleep a wink.”

“You seemed awfully energetic today,” Silva said, smiling, droplets of water dotting his skin, almost as plentiful as his freckles. “You could've fooled us all, Guaje.”

“Pent up energy,” Villa snorted. “Besides, I wanted to impress you.”

“Is that why you scored a hat trick?”

“Mmhm. Scored it for you, puppy.”

Silva laughed, spinning around in Villa’s arms so they were face to face. He reached up, palm to Villa’s cheek, running it over the slight stubble there, smiling fondly. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

“I am too.”

“I’m glad you’re back here with me.”

“How could I ever leave you?”

The Canarian shrugged and leaned in for a kiss. No, Villa would never leave him. That was the beauty of finding true love. He closed his eyes as their lips met, melted against his lover, completely lost himself for a moment. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Villa breathed as they parted. “It’ll always be you and me, kid.”

They dried off and put on underwear and climbed into Silva’s bed, both deciding that if Cesc _did_ wander in, they’d come up with some excuse as needed. There was no way they’d be apart after everything that had happened. They just had to be together, Cesc be damned.

The TV was on in the background as they curled up together, Villa’s head resting right over Silva’s heart, and they sat in a comfortable silence for several minutes just listening to each other breathe and be. Silva ran his fingers carelessly through Villa’s hair, soft and clean and unburdened by gobs of styling product. He smiled to himself, enjoying this rare moment with his lover unguarded, ungroomed.

“Do you remember when we first met?” 

Silva blinked quickly, breath steady and calm with Villa pressed against him. He wrinkled his nose, unsure why he would ask him that now of all times. They never talked about stuff like that, never bothered with nostalgia. The time they had together was too precious to waste on trips down memory lane. Their past was best dwelled upon during lonely nights all alone, not when their limbs were entwined and they were bound by sweat and saliva. 

“Of course I do,” Silva finally mumbled, kissing the top of his lover’s hair possessively. How could he forget that day? Every moment of it was etched in his mind and would be forever. “It was an historic day in my life, you know. You made quite a first impression. I was convinced you hated me.” 

Villa snorted, looking rather pleased with himself as he sat up and suddenly flipped their positions, Silva now safe in his arms, gazing up at him contentedly. The older man smirked as he reached down to tangle his fingers in Silva’s hair. He petted him for a moment, staring down his chest at Silva, golden brown and completely at home with himself there pressed against him. “I might’ve hated you a little.” 

Silva laughed at that, dragging his stubbly chin across Villa’s exposed skin, grinning as the older man squirmed beneath him. “Oh please. I had you wrapped around my finger within the first ten seconds.” 

“You did not.” Villa scowled at the beaming young man, reaching to pull him up so that they were at eye level with one another again. Silva was still laughing, crawling so that he could get comfortable beside Villa, face to face, only centimeters apart. Villa took hold of Silva’s hand, bringing it up to his mouth, kissing his knuckles roughly. “You had me before we even spoke. The second I saw you, David. The very instant you looked at me. You didn’t even have to say a word.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the younger man said, breath hitched in the back of his throat. He wasn’t being dismissive. He knew just how sincere Villa was being. He recognized that tone in his voice, the change that meant he was being completely serious. Villa was never one to talk about feelings, so when he did, Silva knew better than to tease him or shoot him down. Still, it was pretty farfetched to really believe in love at first sight. Surely a grown man would know better than all that. He held Villa’s gaze for a long moment, searching the other man’s deep brown eyes, finding only glimpses of his soul. “How could you love someone without even knowing them?” 

Villa didn’t shrink away from Silva’s commanding eyes. He didn’t even flinch at the word love. Instead he just raised an eyebrow and pulled his arms tight around the smaller man, burrowing his nose into Silva’s hair. “You tell me. How could you fall in love with me? You didn’t even know me. And everyone who did know me thought I was a prick.” 

“They still think you’re a prick.” Silva pointed out, snickering as he gave a nip to Villa’s collarbone. It was gentle, soft, just a ghost of what he was planning on doing to him later. 

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. I get it. I’m an asshole. And yet you still say you loved me at first sight.” 

“I thought we were talking about you loving me,” Silva countered, biting the same spot again, only much harder that time. He gave a wolfish grin as Villa wiggled beneath him. “Don’t try to change the subject, David. I’m on to you.” 

“Oh are you?” Villa shifted, pressing up and into Silva’s mouth, letting the other man abuse his collarbone with his mouth. He didn’t mind feeding his lover’s ego, especially as everything he’d already said was true. It was difficult for him to articulate those sorts of things. He didn’t do well with expressing genuine emotion when he wasn’t on the pitch. Out there, during matches, things felt spontaneous and real. An outburst of emotion was expected and could go uncensored. But in the real world, people needed to display control. Falling all over himself to impress some sexy Canarian brat wasn’t exactly smiled upon. He couldn’t always show what he was feeling or even say it out loud. But in these private moments alone, when it was just the two of them locked away from the world, he felt like he could be himself and say everything he’d ever want to. 

He closed his eyes and pulled back a little, easing back into the soft folds of the bed. When he opened his eyes again he saw Silva’s sunny freckled face, smiling at him with such warmth and caring that he thought he might choke, it was all too much. It wasn’t just warmth or caring in that look. There was want there too, and longing. Ravenous, desperate longing. It was like Silva was starving for him, like he could devour Villa with just that look alone. Villa rolled his eyes a little, then reached to stroke Silva’s cheek. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” Silva asked, biting on his lower lip. Villa’s eyes went straight to the distinctly sharp looking canines protruding from his mouth. 

“Like you’re going to eat me alive.” 

Silva scoffed, mischief flashing in his coppery eyes. “I’d never eat you, David. You’ve domesticated me.” 

Villa’s heart nearly stopped then, for just a second, as he wasn’t sure if his lover was joking or not. He trusted Silva, and he knew on an intellectual level that he was utterly safe in Silva’s arms. But there was always that risk, and with it came the nagging little voice in his head, reminding him that he was lying naked in bed with a werewolf on the night before a full moon. Villa had always been an adrenaline junkie, but sometimes he cursed his own risk taking behavior. He didn’t actually have a death wish after all. 

“You never elaborated. Weren’t you going to tell me all about how you fell in love with me?” Silva said, rolling flat onto his back. He stayed still a moment before pulling Villa on top of him so that their chests were pressed together. The older man willingly obliged, looking down at Silva with a predatory look all his own. It was a smolder, really, and even after all that time it still sent shivers down the Canarian’s spine. The younger man looked up at him, eyes large with anticipation. Villa stayed perfectly still, propped up on his elbows as he gazed down at him. 

“Do you really feel like talking right now, Silvi?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. Sometimes, even now, after all this time, Silva still managed to surprise him. 

“No, Guaje. I don’t really feel like talking at all.” He stared up at Villa, with a look in his eyes that said many things, most of them completely obscene. His words, however, were pointedly less so. Swiftly, he wrapped his arms around Villa’s shoulders and pulled him as close as he could get, whispering breathlessly against his lips, “Shut up and kiss me." 

Villa didn’t need to be told twice. Their mouths met, kisses hungry and needy, but then they were suddenly interrupted from round two by a noise at the door. Someone knocking softly, but incessantly. The two men shared a look before Silva extracted himself from the bed and went to the door, opening it to find Chori standing there.

“Hey,” Silva said, frowning in surprise, shirtless and disheveled. 

“Hey,” Raúl repeated, looking a little nervous. “Um, you uh, haven’t happened to have seen Álvaro, have you?”

From the bed, Villa got up and wandered over to the other two, eyebrows raised an a most unimpressed expression. “You lost your boyfriend?”

“I didn’t lose him,” Raúl pouted, glancing behind him cautiously. Hearing that same line twice in one evening didn’t help his panicked mood. “He said he was going up to our room, so I offered to grab some food and meet him, but when I got up there he was gone. And nobody seems to know where he went.”

“Have you tried his phone?” Silva asked, knowing how basic and dumb that sounded.

Chori nodded. “I even checked his Facebook and Twitter. He hasn’t updated at all or anything.”

“This _is_ serious,” Villa said flatly, yawning.

“It’s really serious,” Raúl insisted, a wave of nerves rising in his voice. 

Silva watched him closely, suddenly feeling very on edge himself, uncertain as to why he ought to feel on high alert. “Is there something else going on?”

“Uh…”

Silva’s breathing quickened. “Chori?”

“He wasn’t feeling so well.”

Villa’s smug act dropped then too, brows knit with worry.

“Is it whatever David had?” Silva asked, his hand on Chori's shoulder to steady him, keep him calm.

Raúl shifted a little and he bit his lower lip. He looked a wreck Silva's heart sank to see him that way. “Could be maybe something like that. I don’t know.”

“Raúl!” The three men all turned quickly to see Fernando trotting down the hall toward them. He looked shaken up, but very relieved to see them, dropping his voice as he approached, speaking in a guarded tone. “Raúl, I’ve been looking all over for you. You have to come with me. Something's happened to Álvaro.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this chapter back in june of last year, so i want to give a special thanks to my girl [pimpam](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpam/pseuds/pimpam) for helping me with editing it and making sure it flowed with everything i've written since then! <3


	30. Chapter Twenty-Nine

Álvaro hadn’t moved at all for several minutes and Iker was beginning to get concerned again. He stood over his sleeping form, hand pressed to Álvaro’s forehead again. “He looks like shit.”

Sergio grunted in agreement from his spot on the other bed.

“And he’s on fire. We’ve got to break this fever. Go get a damp washcloth, Sese,” Iker ordered, rearranging Álvaro to try and get his shirt off. Sergio nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving Iker to struggle to strip Álvaro down. It was a little challenging, but once he got him undressed, Iker got a full picture of something else entirely, hidden before by Álvaro’s clothing. His throat was splotched with purplish bruises and wounds that clearly hadn't fully healed. And the scrapes on his chest, deep, long, like an animal’s claws had ripped the flesh open. These weren’t typical hickeys or other evidence of a wild night out… not in the traditional sense at least. _Something_ had done a real number on Álvaro.

“Jesus!” Sergio gasped, joining Iker in gawking at the sight before them. “What the hell _is_ that?!”

“I don’t know,” Iker confessed, breathing heavily as he place Álvaro back into the pillows.

“How the fuck did he manage to play today, all beat up like this?”

“I don’t know,” Iker repeated, taking the rag from Sergio. Almost as concerning though, was that none of them noticed it before. He frowned and pressed the washcloth to Álvaro’s forehead, wiping the sweat away, suddenly thinking that perhaps calling the physios wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Álvaro’s lip twitched a little, maybe from the cool water, maybe because he was coming too. Iker sniffed and tried to smile. “He’s a fucking Spartan. He’d show up for battle no matter what. It’d take a lot more than a flesh wound to count this guy out.”

Any other time and Sergio would’ve rolled his eyes. Instead he just stayed staring at Álvaro and whispered a little prayer that Iker was right about that.

His thoughts were disrupted by a knock at the door. “Probably room service,” Iker said as Sergio went to get it. But it wasn’t room service at all. Instead it was Fernando returned, and this time he had an entire entourage with him.

“The gang’s all here,” Sergio said, catching Fernando’s eye as Villa, Silva, and Chori filed into the room.

“Álvaro?” Chori said softly, approaching the bed, dark eyes wide in terror at the sight before him. He’d seen the aftermath of what he’d done the night before, but Álvaro’d been so casual about it, told him it was nothing, insisted everything was just fine. Seeing him laid out in bed, pale and clammy, his chest torn up made Raúl feel sick inside. He’d fucked up big time. He’d really and truly fucked up everything. “Oh my god.”

Beside him, Silva and Villa were having quite a similar reaction, though not for the same reasons. They looked to each other, sharing a knowing, somber glance, realizing only one thing could’ve done that to Arbeloa. Silva felt the blood draining from his face, a cold, low, even rage building up inside of him. He wanted to grab Raúl and drag him out of there, yell at him, curse him for being so selfish and stupid, putting them both at risk like that, endangering the lives of every other werewolf in the world. Raúl may have just doomed every single one of them, and all because he wanted to fuck Arbeloa. How could he be so foolish?

Except… wait. There was a problem with this. Silva looked to Chori, watched as he sat down on the bed beside Álvaro, trying to rouse him. Silva knew what had caused such injuries to Arbeloa, he’d seen it before, he’d seen it happen to Chori. But the problem was, it wasn’t yet the full moon. Silva knew how lycanthropy worked. His father had explained everything to him, and he knew for a fact that werewolves could only transform during a full moon, and that wasn’t going to happen for a few days more.

A look for terror came over him, absolute shock and fear. Was it possible something else had attacked Álvaro? But those bite marks… those were clearly the world of a werewolf. Silva didn’t know of anything else that could have made such wounds, so precise, yet so savage. His whole body went tense and he started to shudder slightly, body pulsating with confusion and anger, only to be alleviated by a calm, steady arm snaking around his waist. He caught his breath and turned his head, Villa’s eyes meeting his as the older man gave him a small squeeze, unnoticed by the other men in the room. Though he was still wound up, Silva felt the tension dissipating in an instant, everything communicated between them in the simple gesture. Relax. Breathe. Don’t lose it now. We’ll take care of it. I’m right here. Silva quickly looked away, nodding his head in silent agreement.

“Álvaro, come on. Wake up.” Raúl shook his shoulders, careful not to touch the inflamed skin around the bite marks, hyperaware of all sets of eyes on the pair of them. Gingerly, he pet Álvaro’s cheek, hoping, praying that he’d get a response. 

And somehow, miraculously, he did. Álvaro flinched a little. His nose twitched. And then, slowly, he opened his eyes. “Raúlito?” His voice was froggy, thick from sleep.

“You’re alive!” Raúl cried, relief washing over him. Silva wasn’t sure he’d ever seen that look on Raúl’s face, or if he had he’d never applied any sort of context to it.

“He clearly wasn’t dead,” Sergio pointed out unnecessarily. Fernando elbowed him in the side.

“Where am I? What’s…” Álvaro tried to sit up, obviously overwhelmed by the audience gathered around him. Still pale, he made a vain attempt to afford himself some privacy, pawing at the comforter.

“You’re in Iker’s room,” Raúl said, wiping the sweat from Álvaro’s brow. There was no mistaking the affection in his gesture, but he didn’t seem to care if the others noticed. For their part, no one remarked on it.

“We found you passed out in the elevator,” Fernando said, stepping around to the other side of the bed. He dropped to his knees, elbows on the mattress, chin in his hands as he watched his friend, studied the long, heavy look between Álvaro and Raúl.

“You look like shit,” Sergio added, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m just really tired,” Álvaro said, tearing his eyes from Chori, his situation dawning on him rapidly. “I just need some sleep.”

“Room service should be here any minute with some medicine and soup,” Iker said. “You should take it and go right back to bed. Sleep as much as you can before we have to leave for the airport.”

It was agreed that Fernando and Sergio would help Álvaro back to his room— an easier task now that he was conscious again, and Raúl would stay behind to bring the room service order over once it came. 

“You’re going to be just fine,” Fernando said as he helped Álvaro to his feet. “We’ll get you all changed and tucked into bed, and I’ll even pack up your bags for morning and it’ll all be fine.”

Sergio looked back over his shoulder as they guided Álvaro out of the door, making eye contact with Iker look enough to convey just what he thought of the whole affair. Iker watched them leave without saying a word, knowing full well he’d get an earful about this inconvenience to his evening on the morning’s flight out.

Chori sat down on the bed, holding Álvaro’s teeshirt, folding it uselessly as Silva, Villa, and Iker looked on, each judging the situation in their own way. The four of them were quiet though, quiet enough that it began to feel uncomfortable.

“So, he looked like something attacked him,” Iker said, breaking the silence. The other three looked at him, similar expressions on their faces. “Like, a dog or something. Or a bear.”

“He didn’t get attacked by a bear,” Raúl muttered, his fingers digging into the soft cotton cloth.

“Of course he didn’t,” Iker scowled, a bit playful. He wasn’t stupid, he knew that was impossible… Still, it was all strangely familiar to him, brought back memories of a night a few years back, when one of them got bitten by a wild dog. Iker sniffed sharply and shook his head. “He looked pretty terrible. And that cut or whatever it was on his neck looked like it was possibly infected or something. I think he should see a doctor, maybe just go home.”

“He can’t go home!” Raúl said firmly, surprising the others. “He… look, whatever happened, he’s going to be fine, okay?”

“Chori…” Villa said, voice calm, low. Beside him, Silva’s pulse was racing.

“He just needs to sleep it off, get some antibiotics and liquids and he’ll be fine,” Chori insisted, voice raised.

“He needs a doctor,” Iker said, with the sort of authority that comes with being the captain. “Or at the very least he needs to clean himself up and get that fever broken. I’m fucking worried about him, okay?”

The room service arrived then and Villa went to the door. Raúl closed his eyes tight, only opening them again when Silva reached out to pull him to his feet. 

“Come on,” Silva said, or rather ordered. Raúl looked up at him, eyes wide, like a child called out for misbehaving in class. They stared at each other for a few long seconds until Raúl began to squirm under the gaze. It was only then that Silva gave his friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “He needs his medicine and we all need some sleep.”

Raúl nodded weakly and rose to his feet.

“And you and I are going to have a very serious conversation on the plane,” Silva added quickly, under his breath, just soft enough that Iker didn’t hear. Raúl shivered, and the three Valencia men left Iker alone to sort out events and tidy up the room.

—

Joan showed up about fifteen minutes later, pleasantly buzzed and laughing and ready to quickly retire. “You look like you’ve had one hell of a night,” he chuckled, shirking his shirt as he climbed into his bed. Iker could only manage a small sigh in agreement. “Eh, well, get some sleep, captain. Long day of travel ahead of us, you know.”

“Tell me about it,” Iker chuckled, dragging his hands over his face. What a long fucking day. What a long fucking _week_. It had just been one stupid mishap after the other from the time they checked into the hotel. The sooner they got out of Baku and on their way to South Africa, the better. 

Yawning, Iker snuggled up under his blankets and checked one last time that the alarm clock was set, not noticing at all that his phone still sat untouched beside it, with several unanswered messages from Cesc, all just waiting to be read.

—

With Arbeloa tucked safely into his bed, Sergio and Fernando were left with a choice— either they part ways for the night, or they sneak off someplace quiet, where they could be alone.

Sergio suggested the pool deck. They could dip their feet in the water, or maybe go skinny dipping.

Fernando instead let out a long yawn, and that plan was tabled. “Let’s go back to my room,” he said, leaning against Álvaro’s door, voice hushed, like they were sharing a secret. His cheeks were a bit pink, brown eyes wide, wanting.

“I never thought you’d ask,” Sergio sighed. With anyone else, he’d probably be leering, or at the very least beaming, but with Fernando, things had always been different. For as much of a show as he regularly put on, for as flirtatious and lewd as he could be, he knew when to put a stop to it and be real. And there was no one he’d rather be real with than Fernando.

The blond smiled at him and took his hand, and off they went, Sergio’s insides turning into mush the entire time.

But everything was innocent, everything tame. The room was dark when they got in, and quiet save for the soft sounds of Xabi snoring. Sergio’s heart sank. Seriously? They weren’t going to do _anything_ with Xabi in the room. But then Nando took his hand again and pulled him toward his bed, and before he knew it, they were curled around each other, cuddled up and soundly asleep. 

—

They didn’t say anything until they were safely locked away in their hotel room. Once the door was bolted shut, Silva looked to Villa, eyes flashing dangerously.

“He’s turned him.”

“You don’t know that for sure,” Villa said as he sank onto the bed.

“I know that’s what he’s done, David,” Silva snarled. Villa frowned. Silva quickly turned away from his lover and pulled off his shirt. “What else could have done that? What else could have left those marks on Álvaro’s body?”

“Any number of things. A fox. A large, angry cat. An actual dog.” Silva sniffed. Villa continued, kicking his shoes off and onto the floor. “There could be a completely reasonable explanation for why he’s all beat up like that. Besides, the full moon isn’t for a couple of nights. Don’t werewolves require a moon to transform?”

Yes, that was the question of the hour, and Silva had no way to explain that part away. So perhaps all of those bites and scratches were the handiwork of some crazed, rabid squirrel or something of that ilk. He just couldn’t say for sure. That was what troubled him more than anything. 

“Maybe it’s nothing serious,” Villa continued, turning back the blankets, looking back to Silva, beckoning. Silva went to his side without hesitation. “Or maybe Raúl really _does_ know what happened. Whatever the answer is, we’ll find it and take care of it. You never need to doubt that, David.”

Silva let out the breath he’d been holding and nodded, and the two of them crawled into bed together, limbs entwined as they were used to. His mind was still a mess, with too many questions to answer, and an unshakeable sense of dread in the forefront of his mind. This could all be very dangerous for them, if his gut suspicions were right. But he had to relax, had to try to get a bit of sleep. It’d do no good to stay up the entire night with worry.

Before he drifted off to sleep though, he turned his head and realized the bed across from theirs was still empty.

“I wonder where Cesc is,” he mumbled absently, rolling over to rebury his nose in the crook of Villa’s shoulder.

“Go back to sleep” Villa grunted, pulling his arms tighter around the younger man, effectively ending that line of questioning. Silva considered enacting some defense of Cesc then, but felt himself suddenly overcome with the need for sleep. Yawning, he decided he’d worry about Cesc’s whereabouts in the morning.


	31. Chapter Thirty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you believe it's been a year since i started posting this? it seems like just last night i was spitballing this with my girl pimpam! thanks to each and every one of you for taking the time to read this fic and offer your encouragement. through the process of writing this, i've found my love for writing again, and i've felt really loved and welcomed by this fandom. it means a lot to me to know that others have read and enjoyed this whacky adventure! thank you for everything, you guys! :]

Cesc awoke with a pounding headache and the desperate need for a glass of water. The clock on the bedside table said it was just before five in the morning, which gave him maybe ten more minutes to sleep if he was feeling especially lazy. He was sweating and he felt like shit, and it took a few seconds before he remembered that not only had he been drinking his sorrows away, but he’d also suffered a pretty impressive head wound to boot. He figured he could use a little extra shut eye. If anyone deserved it, it was probably him.

“Ugh,” he groaned, rolling around in bed, burying his face gently into the soft, welcoming pillows. Ten more minutes to ignoring the world and then he’d wake up and face the cruel blight of dawn. Ten more minutes and he’d check his phone for messages while shoving his clothes back into his suitcase. Ten more minutes, and then he’d—

He sat up straight and looked around the room, catching the faint hint of light from under the bathroom door, the sound of the shower running. Cesc narrowed his eyes as he looked around the room, a strange and terrible worry coming over him. His suitcase wasn’t where he’d left it. None of his things were around. Nothing in the room was his at all, except the pile of yesterday’s clothes left in the middle of the floor. No, this wasn’t his room. Still he recognized the room, of course, and not just because it looked like every other hotel room ever. This was Geri’s room.

He blanched, looking down at himself and gasped at his own nudity. He looked over to the other bed, perfectly made still and gasped again. Then to the other pile of clothes beside his— _Geri’s_ clothes. Then to the condom wrapper on the table beside the lamp. 

“Oh my god…”

Had he and Geri had sex? He and _Geri_?! Panic started to set in and Cesc felt somewhat lightheaded. He closed his eyes, tried to relax, tried to remember everything that had happened before he’d fallen asleep. He remembered the match, the hospital, winding up in the lobby, getting into the elevator, being pissed at Iker, then going up to Geri’s room and…

“Fuck!”

Through the wall he could hear Geri humming something. Cesc whimpered and stood up, wrapping a sheet around him as he started to gather up his discarded clothes. He had to get out of there, had to get back to his room, had to take a shower of his own and get his head on straight before he did something else he might end up regretting.

Then, there was a noise from the front door, and suddenly it swung wide open.

“Oh my god!” Cesc hissed, holding the covers up over his bare chest, his clothes falling from his hands back to the floor.

“Oh my god!” Sergio choked, looking weary and exhausted as the door slammed shut behind him. 

“What are you doing here?” Cesc stammered, floundering helplessly, trying to keep some shred of his dignity intact.

“This is _my_ room!” Sergio huffed, pointing to his suitcase, propped neatly in the corner. “I’m just here to pack up my shit.”

“Oh,” Cesc said softy. In the bathroom, the shower was still going.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here, Cesc?” Sergio asked, apparently cured from his moment of shock, making his way to his bag, performing a cursory check for any stray items left unpacked.

Cesc felt his face go red and he delicately reached his hand to knock the wrapper off the nightstand and to the floor once Sergio’s back was turned. “Oh, um, I wasn’t feeling well so I decided to crash here.” It could’ve been the truth for all Sergio knew, and Cesc was banking on Sergio not wanting any of the details.

Except it was Sergio, so of course he wanted the details. The defender looked back over his shoulder, biting back a grin that could only be described as predatory. “You should’ve come by Iker’s room. I’m sure he would’ve loved to take care of you last night.”

Cesc’s heart sank into his stomach. In his haste to escape, he hadn't even given himself a chance to think of Iker. He was still angry with him, hurt at being stood up, even more hurt that he’d seen Fernando leaving from there just a few hours before. But now he had to wrap his head around what he’d done now too, and with his very own best friend. For years he’d wanted Iker Casillas, and when he thought maybe he finally had a shot with him, what had he done at the first sign of trouble? He’d probably done the most hurtful, stupid thing a person could ever do. Cesc’s face started to crumple a little.

Sergio’s gleeful expression fell away too, immediately sensing that something was wrong. He rocked back on his heels, brows furrowed in concern. “Hey, Cesc, what’s wrong?”

“I…” Cesc shook his head, cheeks burning. 

Just then, the bathroom door opened and Gerard emerged in a cloud of steam, towel hung loose around his hips. “Hey, babe, what’s going…” He stood there frozen, satisfied grin fading quickly as his eyes met Sergio’s. “Oh.”

Sergio looked from Geri to Cesc, then to the piles of clothes left carelessly on the floor, to the beds (one untouched, one destroyed), then to the metallic wrapper on the floor, helpfully catching the light. His brown eyes narrowed, arms crossed sternly as he looked back to Cesc. “Look, Cesc, I’m an easy going guy.”

“Sergio, this isn’t what it—” Cesc started, gripping tightly to the sheet.

“I know you all think I’m vapid as hell, and I’ll grant you that this preconceived notion has served me very well from time to time.”

“Ramos,” Gerard growled as he took a step toward him.

“But I can see what is right in front of me, and moreover, I can fucking smell it in here,” Sergio carried on, unperturbed. Ignoring Geri, he glared at Cesc. “You two fucked. And that’s not a problem. That’s not anybody’s business but yours, right? That’s what I’d normally say, except the thing is, all three of us know where you were supposed to be last night, Cesc. And all three of us know you weren’t there. So here’s the deal. You’re going to either tell Iker that you’re not interested anymore, if that’s the case, or you’re going to tell him what you did.”

Cesc’s head suddenly hurt even worse than before, his breathing went all shallow and rapid, eyes huge as he felt his whole life fluttering away. How could he have been so fucking stupid? How could he have done this? He stared into Sergio’s eyes, searching for guidance, sympathy, anything that might help him figure out what to do. And what did he see reflected back? A whole lot of nothing. Okay, not nothing. He saw emotion there, but it all seemed so complicated, he wasn’t sure he could fully parse it out thanks to the head trauma. He felt his lip start to quiver slightly, and suddenly Geri was at his side.

“So tell Casillas he can fuck off.”

Cesc blinked in shock, taking in a breath quite sharply. “What?! No!”

“You don’t need him, Cesc. He’s a jerk. He stood you up.” 

Geri was looking at him, almost pleading, like if he said it, it had to be so. It was partly true, Iker _had_ stood Cesc up, but he wasn't really a jerk. He could be so sweet, so thoughtful. Cesc knew him to be one of the most genuinely loyal people he’d ever met. He’d let himself fall in love with Iker Casillas four years ago, and it took him a long time to admit it, but he’d finally made his move. And now it was all over, for a tryst with his oldest and dearest friend. Geri, who’d loved him and been by his side since the moment they’d met, who’d always brought him back to reality, who’d been the funniest and funnest person he’d ever known. They were the best of friends, they were brothers. And now they’d crossed a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. 

Cesc looked at Geri and tried to swallow back everything, tried to play it cool. Across the room, Sergio stood there, watching them both is a cool disdain.

Fuck, what was he going to do?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a short-ish chapter this time but i wanted to get it posted today! our boys are about to depart for south africa, so let's bid adieu to baku!
> 
> thank you all again for reading! <3


	32. Chapter Thirty-One

Iker went out of his way to look for Cesc, to try to check up on him, to apologize for blowing him off. He knew he owed him more than an apology, what he’d done was more than a little douchey, but he was certain that once Cesc knew the reasons behind their missed rendezvous, he’d be understanding. Maybe they could even sit with each other on the flight to South Africa and make up for lost time and the missed opportunity.

But alarmingly, Cesc was nowhere to be found. It was like he’d dropped off the map, like he was intentionally going out of his way to avoid Iker and the rest of his team. Iker found himself growing more and more worried about him. Had his head trauma been bad enough that he needed to leave the team and seek medical treatment back home? As they mulled around the airport terminal, he approached Xavi with his concerns.

“Oh, he’s fine,” Xavi sighed, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s probably off with Geri at one of the bookstores getting candy and gum.”

Iker’s lips formed a thin line, and he looked thoroughly unimpressed. “But what about his head? He’s okay to travel, isn’t he?”

“Cesc is just fine, there’s no need to mother hen him.” Xavi looked across the terminal, to where Raúl and Álvaro sat, the latter still looking pale and generally out of sorts. “Now, Arbeloa on the other hand…”

Iker turned to look, his frown intensifying. Yeah, no, Arbeloa still looked like hell. Quite frankly, Iker was shocked none of the coaching staff seemed at all concerned with his pallid color and inability to sit up straight. He was just slumped in his chair, gaunt and nursing a large bottle of water. He looked like he needed a bowl of chicken soup and several blankets, and also maybe some antibiotics or something.

“He’s got the flu,” Iker said. Xavi raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “He’ll be fine.”

“And so will Cesc” Xavi snorted, his eyes lighting up as he turned back to the keeper. “Now, before I let you go, I wanted to run a few ideas by you regarding the line up against New Zealand next week…”

Iker sighed and steadied himself, and as he listened to Xavi drone on and one, he decided that maybe his Catalan counterpart was right. Maybe he did worry too much. Cesc was a grown man, not some helpless little idiot kid. He could take care of himself, and more so he could handle the small interruptions and bumps along the road of life. They’d talk when they could, it wasn’t a big deal. Cesc would understand.

—

Raúl’s stomach felt like it was sinking, like it had already sunk to the bottom of the ocean, never to be retrieved again. He felt so anxious, so sick, so completely overwhelmed by the prospect of getting lectured by Silva that a tiny part of him considered faking some serious illness and pulling out of the tournament altogether. He honestly might have, had Álvaro not regained enough strength to bolster his confidence again and get his head straightened out.

“He’s really angry with me,” he exhaled, glancing across the airport terminal to where Silva and Villa sat, talking and joking with some of the others. “I’m worried. Like, super worried.”

“Listen, there’s nothing he can say to you that changes any of this,” Álvaro said, taking another dose of fever medication, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What’s done is done, and that’s it, Chori. Silva can be angry all he likes, but it’s a wasted emotion. It’s better to look ahead instead of looking backwards all the time.”

Álvaro was right, Raúl agreed. So he simply sighed and slowly nodded, and once it was time to board the plane, he obediently took the empty aisle seat next to Silva. A few rows back, Villa and Álvaro ended up together. Raúl noted that with a grim sense of foreboding, a feeling which only intensified as he registered the displeasure on Silva’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Raúl mouthed, buckling his seatbelt over his lap. “I didn’t think, I—“

“No, you didn’t,” Silva answered sharply, his eyes narrowing at his friend. Raúl almost shivered, the look was so cold. He knew Silva was mad at him, but this was on a whole other level. “And that’s just the problem. You do these things and you don’t even _care_ about the consequences.”

“David—” Raúl wanted to whimper, but he kept it together enough to choke out Silva’s name.

“This could be catastrophic, for all of us, and you’re not even worried about it. You’re just worried about getting your dick wet.”

“What?! No! That’s not true and that’s not fair!”

“Isn’t it?”

How dare Silva question the legitimacy of what he and Álvaro had decided to do together? What right did he have to undermine their love? And moreover, Raúl had just as much a stake in keeping their secret. He was a werewolf too, it wasn’t like he was just some random person with no vested interest in not being found out. They were in this together, all of them. It wasn’t just David Silva against the world, with David Villa along as his sidekick. Raúl was part of this bullshit saga, for better or for worse, and Silva had no right to make any demands of silence. 

Raúl opened his mouth to speak, to defend himself and his relationship, to put Silva back in his place, but just then the flight attendants began to explain the emergency procedures. So instead he turned to Silva and spoke to him in the lowest, firmest voice he could manage, tone aching with finality. “What’s done is done, David. I get it, you’re angry, you’re worried about everything. But it’s too late. He and I are in this together, forever. And if you don’t like it, tough. This is out of your hands.”

Silva’s eyes fluttered and he started to speak, but it was too late. Raúl had already unfastened his seatbelt and stalked down the aisle toward the back of the plane. Silva was stunned, his sense of disbelief only leveling off when Villa dropped into the seat beside him.

“You really ticked him off, huh,” Villa said glancing down the aisle to the seat he’d just vacated.

“Yeah, I guess I did.” Silva frowned, unable to even look back himself.

“It’s gonna be alright. We’ll sort it out once we land.”

Silva didn’t answer. He only nodded vaguely, then pushed up the armrest between them before closing his eyes to sleep on the flight.

—

Sergio had every intention of sitting next to Fernando on the flight. In fact, he’d strategically worn his most alluring cologne and had some choice innuendo laden topics of conversation at the ready so as to make the most of their time in the air. And of course, he was practically bursting at the seams to spill the beans about Piqué and Cesc. It was all shaping up to be an eventful and exciting voyage.

Or it was until he got on board and found the seat beside Fernando had already been claimed.

“Move, Xabi,” Sergio barked, holding up the boarding process. He sounded like a petulant child, but he really didn’t care. “I’m sitting there.”

Xabi slowly turned to look at him, his expression wholly unmoved. “There are plenty of other seats.”

“I want to sit with Nando.”

Behind them, toward the front of the plane, someone yelled in frustration, “Ramos! Move your ass!”

“I’m already settled here,” Xabi said calmly. 

Beside him, Fernando gave a helpless shrug. “We can switch around later.”

“But—!!” Sergio was on the verge of doing something stupid in his frustration.

From the last row there came a voice of reason, breaking through the blinding fog of chaos. “Nene, come sit with me.”

Sergio looked back, his eyes meeting Iker’s, a pang of guilt shooting through him as he briskly forced his way down the aisle. Of course he’d sit with Iker, of course he would. But he’d feel bad about it, for every single second of it, because as excited as he was to gossip with Nando, he felt the dread of breaking Iker’s heart just as intensely. There was nothing Sergio wouldn’t do for Iker, his captain, his very best friend in the entire world. But this mess with Cesc, well…

“Smile, Sergio,” Iker said as Sergio sat down beside him. Across the aisle, Xavi sat engrossed in a novel, pointedly ignoring the rest of the men as they sorted themselves out. “There’s no sense in worrying over things you can’t change.”

“It’s hard to smile when you feel completely lousy,” Sergio grumbled.

“I’ll go sit with Xabi later. How’s that?” 

Sergio knew what Iker was trying to do. He wanted to fix it, to undo the drama and make it right. It was the captainly thing to do, even if deep down it was a little bit counter to Iker’s natural tendencies. Sergio’d known him long enough to know that Iker thrived when things got messy, but he also knew that Iker felt like he should _want_ order. It was like he was torn between the duty of being an adult and the thrill of watching the world burn. Or rather, watching the world get singed.

Slowly though, Sergio smiled, to mask the urge to frown if nothing else. “I love you. You’re the best.”

Iker’s grin was cheeky. He pulled down the window blind and for the first time in a long time, he looked completely relaxed. “Tell me that again after we win the tournament.”

Sergio laughed, loud enough to make Xavi frown from across the aisle, and for the moment, things seemed to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow it's been awhile... my apologies everyone! the next two chapters after this are ready to go though, so there won't be as long a delay this time! happy halloween everyone!


	33. Chapter Thirty-Two

“Do you remember when we first met?” 

Silva blinked quickly at the sound of Villa’s voice, suddenly wide awake. He wrinkled his nose, unsure why he would ask him that now of all times. They never talked about stuff like that, never bothered with nostalgia. The time they had together was too precious to waste on trips down memory lane. Their past was best dwelled upon during lonely nights all alone, not during moments spent together, and certainly not on an airliner packed with their teammates, en route to South Africa.

“Of course I do,” Silva finally mumbled, shifting in his window seat so that he could see Villa clearly from the corner of his eye. How could he forget that day? Every moment of it was etched in his mind and would be forever. “It was an historic day in my life, you know. You made quite a first impression. I was convinced you hated me.” 

Villa snorted, looking rather pleased with himself as he settled back in his seat, a hand snaking beneath the complimentary blanket that was draped over his lap to rest on Silva’s thigh. “I might’ve hated you a little.” 

Silva laughed at that, rolling his eyes. “Oh please. I had you wrapped around my finger within the first ten seconds.” 

“You did not.” Villa scowled at the beaming young man, his voice kept intentionally low as he inched closer to Silva, so that their noses were but a few centimeters apart. “You had me before we even spoke. The second I saw you, David. The very instant you looked at me. You didn’t even have to say a word.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the younger man said, breath hitched in the back of his throat. He wasn’t being dismissive. He knew just how sincere Villa was being. He recognized that tone in his voice, the change that meant he was being completely serious. Villa was never one to talk about feelings, so when he did, Silva knew better than to tease him or shoot him down. Still, it was pretty farfetched to really believe in love at first sight. Surely a grown man would know better than all that. He held Villa’s gaze for a long moment, searching the other man’s deep brown eyes, finding only glimpses of his soul. “How could you love someone without even knowing them?” 

Villa didn’t shrink away from Silva’s commanding eyes. He didn’t even flinch at the word love. Instead he simply gave Silva’s thigh a squeeze before sinking back against his chair. “You tell me. How could you fall in love with me? You didn’t even know me. And everyone who did know me thought I was a prick.” 

“They still think you’re a prick.” Silva pointed out, eyes flickering away momentarily as a flight attendant breezed down the aisle behind Villa’s back. While he was at it, he glanced around the cabin and noted there were no lights on, and aside from the occasional glow of a DVD player, the rest of the passengers appeared to be asleep.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, I know. I get it. I’m an asshole. And yet you still say you loved me at first sight.” 

“I thought we were talking about you loving me,” Silva countered, staring Villa down again, the darkness of the cabin allowing his smile to look somehow wolfish and sweet simultaneously. “Don’t try to change the subject, David. I’m on to you.” 

“Oh are you?” Villa shifted toward him again, pressing his lips to Silva’s. He didn’t mind feeding his lover’s ego, playing along and letting Silva bask in the glow of love, especially as everything he’d already said was true. It was difficult for Villa to articulate those sorts of things. He didn’t do well with expressing genuine emotion when he wasn’t on the pitch. He always felt a little hesitant, not inauthentic so much as unsure. Out there, during matches, things felt spontaneous and real. An outburst of emotion was expected and could go uncensored. But in the real world, people needed to display control. Falling all over himself to impress some sexy Canarian brat wasn’t exactly smiled upon. He couldn’t always show what he was feeling or even say it out loud. But in these private moments alone, when it was just the two of them, even with the rest of their friends all around, he felt like he could be himself and say everything he’d ever want to. 

He closed his eyes and pulled back a little, easing back into the soft folds of the airplane blanket. When he opened his eyes again he saw Silva’s sunny freckled face smiling at him with such warmth and caring that he thought he might choke, it was all too much. It wasn’t just warmth or caring in that look. There was want there too, and longing. Ravenous, desperate longing. It was like Silva was starving for him, like he could devour Villa with just that look alone. Villa rolled his eyes a little, then reached to stroke Silva’s cheek. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” Silva asked softly, biting on his lower lip. Villa’s eyes went straight to the distinctly sharp looking canines protruding from his mouth. 

“Like you’re going to eat me alive.” 

Silva scoffed, mischief flashing in his coppery eyes. “I’d never eat you, David. You’ve domesticated me.” 

Villa’s heart nearly stopped then, for just a second, as he wasn’t sure if his lover was joking or not. He trusted Silva, and he knew on an intellectual level that he was utterly safe in Silva’s presence. But there was always that risk, and with it came the nagging little voice in his head, reminding him that he’d been lying naked in bed with a werewolf just before a full moon. Villa had always been an adrenaline junkie, but sometimes he cursed his own risk taking behavior. He didn’t actually have a death wish after all. 

“You never elaborated. Weren’t you going to tell me all about how you fell in love with me?” Silva said, having re-situated himself so he perched sideways in his seat, so he could keep a close and careful eye on Villa. He stayed still a moment before seizing hold of Villa’s hand and bringing it to his mouth, placing the gentlest of kisses on his wrist. Villa watched Silva with a predatory look all his own. It was a smolder, really, and even after all that time it still sent shivers down the Canarian’s spine. The younger man looked up at him, eyes large with anticipation as he kissed Villa’s wrist, soft at first, then more firmly, then with his teeth. Villa stayed perfectly still, and just let him.

“Do you really feel like talking right now, Silvi?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. Sometimes, even now, after all this time, Silva still managed to surprise him. 

“No, Guaje. I don’t really feel like talking at all.” He paused, a look in his eyes that said many things, most of them completely obscene. His words, however, were pointedly less so. Swiftly, he placed both of his hands on Villa’s shoulders and pulled him as close as he could get, squished in their airplane seats, whispering breathlessly against his lips, “Shut up and kiss me." 

Villa didn’t need to be told twice.


	34. Chapter Thirty-Three

**July 2006  
Valencia**

It felt like he’d been gone for ages. It hadn’t really been that long that he was away from Valencia, just a season spent refining his skills in Galicia, with routine visits back home to see his family and visit with his friends. It was the typical life of a young footballer, but he was grateful to be back with his team and he was eager to prove that his selection for the first squad hadn’t been a mistake. A lot was on the line for David Silva, but he maintained his cool demeanor as his new-old teammates welcomed him fully into the fold.

But with the anxiety came the comfort of the familiar. At Celta de Vigo he’d never been full able to relax, living in a state of constant vigilance that someone might learn the truth about him. It was a secret he’d struggled with for his entire life and the burden of keeping it wore down on him sometimes, but he had no other alternative. No one could ever learn the truth about his lycanthropy. It was too dangerous to let anyone know, it could expose the entire community to violence and persecution. Centuries of history supported these fears, and yet… And yet Silva longed to confide in someone, to share this most intimate and natural part of himself with another person. He knew he wasn’t the first werewolf to crave that connection with another, but that didn’t make these feelings any easier to combat. If anything, knowing that all the other werewolves who’d ever lived had struggled with their nature and suppressed this aspect of themselves in order to pass amongst humans made him all the more desperate to reveal himself. He longed to break free. He longed to find someone who would be his friend no matter what. Was that too much to ask for? Was that really so dangerous?

Of course it was. His father reminded him of this as he drove him to training on his first morning back. 

“This is very important, David,” his father said as he pulled into a parking space.

Silva tried not to roll his eyes. He wasn’t a child anymore. He was twenty years old. He’d survived this long without revealing himself. Sure, he longed for companionship which would extend beyond his family unit, but he was smarter than that. “I know. It will be fine. Trust me.”

His father smiled then, and reached over to ruffle his son’s hair. “I do trust you. Now go out there and give them hell, my boy.”

He took a moment to fluff his hair back into place, back into his eyes the way he liked it, before exiting the car and beginning the next phase of his life. There was a lot to look forward to, and truthfully he was a lot more nervous than he’d care to admit. Hopefully though, he could channel some of that anxiety toward impressing his new teammates and Quique. Besides, the more he stayed focused on training and the sport, the less time and energy he’d have to think about his curse. And the less time he spent thinking about his curse, the better he’d be on the pitch. It was just that simple. He tossed his training bag over his shoulder and waved his father goodbye, entering the facility, holding his breath in excitement.

To say he was welcomed with open arms was a bit of an understatement. The whole locker room seemed to gravitate toward him as he entered. He stood there, a bit stiff, hoping his shyness wouldn’t be mistaken for discomfort or standoffishness, chewing on his lower lip as he waved his hellos. Teammates, both familiar and new clamored toward him enthusiastically. His nervousness slowly dissipated as he did his best to memorize names and faces and reacquaint himself with the ins and outs of the facility. He’d spent his teenaged years at Valencia, but being on the first team now meant he had to rememorize the place all over again. 

And being on the first team meant he had his own locker now. He found it easily and set about making himself at home, glancing around as he changed for practice. The whole room was abuzz, everyone chatting and laughing, a jovial mood about the place. Silva regarded his teammates with wonder and awe, masked somewhat by his unruly brown bangs in his eyes. He could get used to these people. He could befriend them. He was sure of it.

He’d just knelt down to tighten the laces of his boots when someone approached him, stopping right in front of him, standing there, like he was just waiting to be acknowledged. Silva didn’t look up just yet, tying his boot with hair obscuring his face for several pointed seconds before he slowly raised his eyes, looking at him from the feet on up. His heart stopped beating for a good ten seconds then. His mouth went dry in an instant. That was the exact moment that David Silva fell in love for the first time.

The man was gorgeous. He was the most beautiful man Silva had ever seen, with eyes so intense and dark that he thought it might actually be possible to get lost in them forever. That was cliched and stupid and completely crazy, but Silva was pretty sure that it might really be true. And it wasn’t just the guy’s eyes that captured his attention, it was his entire face. He’d never seen anyone scowl quite so magnificently before, not even in movies or on TV. This man had perfected the art of the sexy glare and he was leveling it right at Silva, building up his hopes and breaking his heart all in that one smoldering gaze. Factor in the boyband haircut and the soul patch and he was a complete work of sexy, sassy art. 

Silva recognized him immediately. There was no mistaking David Villa. He knew all about David Villa. He was on the National Team, he’d been in the World Cup, and in just one season he’d managed to break Valencia’s all time scoring record. He was phenomenal. He was amazing. And Silva was going to be playing with him, so long as he didn’t completely blow his chances through sheer incompetence.

Silva’s lips twitched slightly, into something of a smile. He hoped that’s what it was at least. A smile was better than a scowl. He didn’t want to scowl at Villa, even though that’s exactly what Villa was doing to him. 

“Hi,” he said at last, breaking the several seconds of silence crackling between them.

Villa’s haughty expression remained the same. “You’re Silva, right? David Silva?”

Silva nodded, what was a only half smile slowly fading away, and with it his short lived hopes and momentary fantasies of friendship or more. “Yes. And you’re David Villa.” 

The older man snorted a little, ego seeming to cloud his features a little. “I know who I am,” he said, cracking a grin. Silva couldn’t help but notice the sharp points of his canines, the wolfish glint in his eyes as they stared at each other. If he didn’t know any better (and he knew, for sure) he might think that Villa was the werewolf and he was the potential prey. It unnerved him more than he’d ever been unnerved in his entire life. 

He swallowed hard, not daring to break Villa’s gaze. After a moment spent trying to decide whether or not Villa meant for his smile to be warm or intimidating, the predatory look in his eyes softened just slightly, fading into a confident smirk. “Welcome back. I’m looking forward to seeing you on the pitch. They say you’re like a magician out there.”

Did they say that about him, really? Silva knew people talked about him, he knew that he was talented and skillful and that he was capable of fantastic things. If he lacked confidence in himself, he’d never have achieved anything on the pitch. But it still felt strange to know that his reputation preceded him, and it felt even stranger to know that someone on Villa’s level not only knew his name, but could actually recall that information. Silva’d just assumed he’d have to work his way up to get attention from the starters and the top scorers. 

“There’s nothing magical about me,” Silva said, pushing his bangs out of his eyes, still staring at Villa intently. The irony of his words wasn’t lost on him. Though lycanthropy wasn’t technically a magical condition, most humans who encountered werewolves and lived to tell the tale seemed to associate the condition with elements of black magic. 

Silva had no idea if magic existed at all, really. He’d never believed in it before. He’d never seen any reason to think it was real. But he’d never been in love before that day, and his mother had once told him that love was the only kind of magic that still existed in the world. Maybe she was right about that. She was usually right about most things.

“I’ll decide that for myself, yeah?” Villa answered, finally looking away. He was so handsome, Silva had to remind himself that he needed to breathe, and also not choke on his own tongue. It was at that moment that he realized what was happening to him. 

Not only had he never questioned the existence of magic, but he’d also never questioned his own desires or really experienced firsthand, personal lust. Sure, he’d noticed other attractive people in the world. He was twenty and he was a footballer. He’d seen lots of men in various states of undress for most of his life. And he’d seen girls before too. He’d never actually taken one out, but he’d seen pictures, and he had friends who liked to brag about their conquests to him, because he was too polite to tell them to knock it off, even if he did roll his eyes at their stories. But he’d never met anyone he’d wanted to sleep with. He’d never felt that stirring inside of himself. He’d said all of ten words to this man and he already felt like he was going to go out of his mind. In the span of a minute he’d come to understand what it felt like and why these emotions were equated to magic.  
It was crazy. It was unreal. And if he was being honest, he never wanted it to end.

Silva stood there quietly, nodding slowly as Villa gave a casual salute and sauntered away. The rest of the locker room was alive all around him, alive with the excitement of the new season looming and the budding chemistry of a new lineup. Grown men laughing loudly, thrilled that they got paid to play football for a living, living their lives around something as silly and beautiful as the game. The elation was palpable, and yet David Silva could do nothing but stand still, back against his locker as he stared at the spot where Villa had stood just moments before. His heart was pounding. It felt like a freight train in his chest, thundering in his ribcage, and it was so loud he was almost certain everyone else could hear it too. 

But no one seemed to react to it or to him, not in any way that seemed unusual at least, so he let himself relax slightly. Still, he was on edge, unsure as to what exactly had happened and what had passed between him and Villa as they had their little stand off. What was he supposed to do now? Go out on the pitch and play like nothing had happened? That was the intelligent answer, and he knew it was the right one, but what would he do once practice was over? Would he be able to go about his life like nothing had happened, like nothing had changed? 

Something had changed within him. It felt like his soul had been set on fire. A minute with Villa and Silva’s world seemed vibrant, colorful, full of opportunity. He was a young man approaching the prime of his life, new feelings awakening inside of him, new experiences taking root in his mind. The room wasn’t really spinning. There weren’t actual bubbles and a glittering pink haze coloring the room. And yet, he seemed to perceive it all that way. The world was his oyster, and it was a magical fucking oyster indeed.


End file.
